


Prodigal Son

by sodium_amytal



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Ghosts, Horror, M/M, Mystery, Paranormal, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 19:39:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 64,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17566724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sodium_amytal/pseuds/sodium_amytal
Summary: It’s been eight years since Jeremy left behind his rural hometown and his best friend, Eddie, for a more promising life in Chicago. But when Eddie calls him from jail and asks for his help, Jeremy returns in a heartbeat to the sleepy town of Harvest, Wisconsin. The remains of Eddie’s missing brother Isaac have been discovered, and Eddie is the prime suspect. Bringing along his friend Casey—a trial lawyer and Elvis impersonator—Jeremy is determined to solve the mystery of Isaac’s disappearance and exonerate Eddie. After all, Eddie’s just a mild-mannered simpleton, albeit a bit of an oddball. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, but he might dig dear old Mom out of her grave for a little company.When Jeremy’s quest for answers awakens a restless spirit seeking vengeance, what began as an effort to save his friend becomes a dangerous clash with the supernatural that threatens not just his own life, but the lives of everyone he cares about. To survive, Jeremy must uncover startling truths about his own dark past, and even the world as he knows it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had this posted on dA and Wattpad for a while, but after a couple comments I decided to throw it up here. Maybe it'll get more attention on a site where you can read and comment anonymously. This was the first part of a planned series, with each "book" focusing on a new character before the final part brings them all together (think MCU). Maybe I'll end up writing the rest of those stories. Who knows? Either way, enjoy. 
> 
> BONUS: Fanmix --> [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/poppinlovecocktail/playlist/5DaDZfBKSkVQERXp7Mo5w0?si=FIWinJPPTr-sb3f_zwEHww)

_“A man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it.”_  ~ George Moore

 

* * *

_November 1980_

  
The photograph is worn and faded from age, so Jeremy's careful as he holds the picture between his thumb and forefinger. Gazing at the moment captured here, Jeremy is briefly transported back to happier days when he and Eddie had loved each other with the fierce, timeless conviction of teenagers. It's probably not a great sign when you look back and view your high school years as the best of your life, especially when things are going objectively great for you.  
  
Sprawled in his usual position on the couch, Jeremy lifts the bottle to his lips and swallows down the bitter ale. A creased photo album lies opened in his lap. The other pictures depict Jeremy's mother and father, sometimes the three of them together, all snapped before divorce and alcoholism took their toll on the family. Then there are the countless photographs of Jeremy himself at various ages. But only this one photo of Eddie exists, and by some cruel twist of irony it includes both him and Jeremy, the two of them looking shy and awkward yet exuberantly happy.   
  
The front door unlocks. Jeremy shoves the photo inside the album and sticks the cracked leather volume underneath stacks of magazines on the coffee table. He tries to look casual as the door opens and Casey's wide frame enters the apartment.   
  
“Were you pining again?” Casey asks with a sigh. Given that Jeremy's splayed out on the couch with a bottle of beer, looking bedraggled and bloodshot, it's not hard for Casey to connect the dots. Few things make Jeremy as mournful as what he's lost.  
  
“Give me a fuckin' break,” Jeremy grumbles, but there's no heat to it.   
  
Casey sheds his leather jacket on the rack near the door. In his right hand is a plastic grocery sack filled with the ingredients for tonight’s dinner: fried chicken strips with mustard barbeque sauce. He sets the bag on the kitchen counter and takes a diet Coke out of the fridge. “If you miss him so much, just give him a call,” says Casey, for what seems like the thousandth time in their months-old relationship.   
  
“He doesn’t have a phone,” Jeremy says with an edge of ‘we’ve been over this’ impatience. Because he’s certain he has told Casey this exact statement at least once before.  
  
“It’s a small town. Somebody should be able to pass on a message. How hard is it to walk next door or across the street?”  
  
“His mother would kill him if she knew we were talking.” In most situations, this would be considered hyperbole. Not so with Eddie’s mother.  
  
Casey flaps his left hand—the one not holding the Coke—in a dismissive gesture. “Excuses, excuses.” He’s had this conversation with Jeremy too many times to take it seriously, and Jeremy doesn’t blame him. He imagines it will be the argument that inevitably tears them apart at some point in the future.   
  
Casey sits at the dining table while Jeremy prepares dinner; he’s more of a hindrance than help when it comes to cooking, and Jeremy’s tiny loft apartment doesn’t accommodate much space for two people in the kitchen. Outside the window, the sun is beginning to set over downtown Chicago. The glare from the open blinds against the stainless steel appliances gives Jeremy a headache.  
  
Casey draws the blinds shut and lumbers over to the kitchen island where Jeremy’s rinsing the chicken breasts in the sink. He leans on the marble countertop, says, “Guess who’s thinking about ending his sabbatical?”  
  
There’s really only one way to answer that question. “You?”  
  
“How’d you guess?” Casey has an infectious, goofy smile, made even more endearing by how round his face is. “Yeah, well, I was talking with Angelo about it, but I wanted to see what you think.”   
  
Angelo is—or was—Casey's partner at the firm. For the past year, Casey has put his law practice on hold after a family tragedy. Jeremy's never seen him in his capacity as a lawyer, having only met Casey a few months ago.  
  
“Since when does my opinion matter? I didn't think we were serious.”  
  
Casey blushes, looking flustered for a rare moment.  
  
Jeremy can’t resist the opportunity to tease him. “You got a crush on me, Counselor?”  
  
“Go fuck yourself.” The way Casey’s cherubic cheeks flush when he laughs take the sting out of his words.  
  
“But you do it so much better.”  
  
Casey grins.  
  
“In any case,” Jeremy says, slicing the chicken into strips, “if you think you’re ready to go back to work, go for it. Isn’t that what life’s about: chasing happiness where you can find it?”  
  
“Hard to argue with that.”  
  
Twenty minutes later, dinner’s on the table, the smell of fried chicken wafting through the air. Maybe one of the perks of living in Chicago is the immediate access to all kinds of decadent foods, but Jeremy would feel remiss if he didn’t exercise his cooking skills in his own kitchen, at least for Casey’s sake; the guy can’t live on deep-dish pizza and hot dogs.   
  
“I assume you’re not spending Thanksgiving with the folks?” Jeremy says after a moment.  
  
Casey licks a glob of mustard sauce from his thumb. “You assume correctly.”  
  
“I don’t like the idea of you being alone during the holidays.”  
  
“Well, tough shit. I’m not the first person life’s taken a massive dump on. I’ll manage.”  
  
Jeremy notes the distance Casey puts between himself and his tragedy, the way he sidesteps actually talking about what happened. Casey has only ever spoken about it once, on a particularly difficult night for both of them, and Jeremy’s lucky he wasn’t too drunk to rememeber, because Casey’s never talked candidly about the incident again.  
  
“What if you spent Thanksgiving with me?” Jeremy suggests. “My mom and my grandma live in Wisconsin. It’s not too far of a drive.”  
  
Casey chews it over, considering. His masculine pride, instilled in him by his father, probably prevents him from accepting Jeremy’s hospitality. But Casey has done plenty that spits in the face of his father’s influence, so his ultimate decision is a coin toss.  
  
“You know you’re just gonna mope if you spend Thanksgiving alone,” Jeremy says, hoping to convince him. “I don’t care what your therapist says: distractions are awesome.”  
  
A twitch of a smile flickers on Casey’s mouth. “And your ma and granny will be totally fine with you bringing a random guy over?”  
  
“I wouldn’t invite you if they were bigots. Gimme some credit.”  
  
Casey doesn’t seem to know how to respond to this, so he says, “I’ll think about it.”  
  
The phone rings halfway through dinner. Jeremy rises to answer, grabs the receiver off the wall. “Hello?”  
  
The voice on the other end cuts through Jeremy's chest like hot blades. “Jer? It’s Eddie. I need your help,” Eddie says, as though the last eight years have not created a chasm between them. His voice is soft and broken, and Jeremy knows this call is no cause for celebration.  
  
Stunned and astonished that Eddie is speaking to him, Jeremy asks, “Why? What happened?”  
  
“I’m not quite sure myself. But by the sound of it, I'm in a whole lot of trouble.”  
  
“Okay, where are you? I can come get you and we'll figure this out.”  
  
“I'm, uh, I'm at the police station.”  
  
A protective surge of anger and panic flares in Jeremy's blood. “What the fuck? Why? Did they arrest you?”  
  
From his place at the table, Casey makes an inquisitive noise. “Who's arrested?” he asks with his mouth full.  
  
Jeremy ignores him, his attention drawn to Eddie on the other end of the line. “I think so,” Eddie says. “They’re asking me a lot of questions, and one of them said I should call a lawyer. So I called you 'cause you're smart. I figured you'd know what to do.”  
  
“Oh, Jesus,” Jeremy sighs. It takes him a moment to get his thoughts together. “Okay, look, I know a great lawyer. I’ll send him to you. Where are you?”  
  
“The jail.”  
  
“I know jail, but where—” Jeremy stops as he realizes the answer. Of course Eddie stayed in Harvest; he never knew enough about the world to want more than what was in front of him. “Right. Never mind. Look, just—don't say anything to the cops until I get there, okay?”  
  
“Okay.” A smile seeps into Eddie's voice, and he sounds the same as he always did. Some things never change. “Thanks.”  
  
Jeremy hangs up the phone. Unease shreds his chest. His vision pulsates, the world spinning under his feet. He has to brace himself against the kitchen island or else he’ll crumple to the floor.  
  
“A lawyer, huh? Guess I'm officially back in the saddle,” Casey says, wiping his hands on his jeans. He stands up, walks to the coat rack and grabs his jacket. “So who's your delinquent friend?”  
  
“He's not a delinquent,” Jeremy snaps. It’s surprising how much steel he hears in his own voice. “He's innocent.”  
  
Casey slips his arms into the jacket. “That's what they all say.”  
  
“It's Eddie.”  
  
“Oh.” Casey pauses, understanding the gravity of the situation. “Shit.”  
  
“That's not gonna be a problem, is it?”  
  
“You never forget your first,” Casey says with a gentle smirk. “C'mon, let's save your boyfriend.”


	2. Chapter 2

The town of Harvest isn’t what anyone would consider a bustling metropolis. About a two-hour drive from Chicago, it’s a farming community with a population under seven-hundred. Melancholy rings through Jeremy as he maneuvers Casey's Oldsmobile through the empty streets. It’s almost startling how diminished the town is in comparison to a big city; Jeremy’s grown accustomed to sky-high buildings, neon lights, and the endless rattle of the L-train passing through.  
  
As the quaint township rolls by in a midnight scroll of flatlands, naked trees, and one-story brick buildings, long-buried memories spring out of the dusty parts of Jeremy’s brain. Driving down Main Street, he is assaulted with tactile recollections of his youth: sneaking off with Eddie to smoke pot and fool around by the frozen-over Harvest Lake. Reading comic books with Mike at the fluorescent-lit diner. Summer picnics at the park.  
  
It’s just past ten p.m., and there’s barely any activity on the streets. Most of the storefronts have closed up for the night.   
  
“Home sweet home, huh? This is where you grew up?” Casey asks from the passenger seat.  
  
“Thinking of relocating?”  
  
“Not just yet.” Casey snorts a laugh. “Do you miss it?”  
  
“No.”  
  
 _Sounds good, rings false._  
  
The Harvest police station is a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it building wedged among others of the same type. Inside, fuckery abounds. Two plainclothes cops hassle Eddie behind the observation glass of the interrogation room.   
  
“Un-fucking-believable,” Casey mutters under his breath before charging into the room. The door swings open, and the two men step away from Eddie. One of them, a bearded redhead who looks like a stretched-out leprechaun, is dressed in a white shirt and dark slacks. His rolled-up sleeves are tourniquets around his meaty forearms. The other man is square-faced man and appears to be in his mid-fifties. Jeremy recognizes him as Chief Robert Parks, the head honcho of Harvest’s law enforcement for the last ten years.  
  
Casey notices the bruise on Eddie's cheek and above his eyebrow. “Whoa, whoa! What happened here, fellas?”   
  
“Calm down, fat Elvis,” Leprechaun says. “We didn't touch him.”  
  
Casey gives them a tired glare, like he’s heard it all before. His gaze shifts to Eddie. “Kid, what's with the bruises?”  
  
Eddie's holding something in his lap underneath the table, and as Jeremy moves closer he recognizes a familiar plaid cap wringing between Eddie's hands. In Jeremy's head, Eddie is eternally frozen at eighteen, so seeing him now is somewhat disorienting. His black hair hangs just past his chin in greasy waves. His youthful face bears a five o'clock shadow, which Jeremy finds oddly appealing on him. Eddie's fashion sense hasn't changed over the years though, his wiry body still clad in grungy overalls and a flannel shirt.   
  
“He pushed me into the wall,” Eddie answers meekly.  
  
Leprechaun's eyes become spiteful slits. “Horseshit. He hit himself on purpose so it would look like we did it. It's the oldest trick in the book.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I'm sure you're all misunderstood, unsung heroes,” says Casey. “But police brutality equals everything he said to you is inadmissible in court. So you've got nothing.”  
  
“He had a fucking corpse in his house!” Leprechaun shouts, as though the words have exploded out of him.  
  
Chief Parks puts out a hand to temper his colleague. “Ease into it.” Then he looks at Jeremy and Casey and says, “Sorry, I’m Robert Parks, Chief of Police here in Harvest. My colleague who sometimes forgets his manners is Detective Zebrowski.”   
  
Jeremy finds it interesting that Chief Parks introduces himself so formally. The chief doesn’t seem to recognize Jeremy as the kid who had been best friends with his son Mike in high school.  
  
“Casey Hanley. I’m his lawyer,” Casey says, jerking a thumb at Eddie. “So what's the charge? Running a cemetery without a license?”  
  
Even Jeremy notices the way Chief Parks sort of sidesteps the question. “Mr. Lehrke is the prime suspect in the murder of his brother Isaac.”  
  
“By virtue of what, being related to him?”  
  
 _It’s a murder now?_  
  
Jeremy remembers when nineteen-year-old Isaac Lehrke vanished all those years ago. There was no evidence of foul play, and since Isaac’s truck was missing too, he’d been assumed a runaway. Jeremy wants to ask what changed in the case, but he knows better than to disrupt Casey when he’s got a rhythm going.  
  
“By virtue of a confession,” Zebrowski cuts in. “We asked him about his brother's disappearance, and he said it was his fault.”  
  
“And I’m sure those bruises have nothing to do with that ‘confession.’” Casey actually uses air quotes on that one. “Both of you bozos need to leave so I can talk to my client.” Neither of them move. The cops are a little slow tonight. “Go on. Shoo,” Casey urges as they head for the door. “Scram. Get lost.”  
  
Chief Parks leaves the room, taking Zebrowski with him. Jeremy follows them out, since he isn’t a lawyer. He doesn’t want to risk being compelled to testify on the off-chance Eddie confesses to anything illegal.  
  
“Tell me about the corpse,” Jeremy says when they’re standing outside the interrogation room.  
  
Chief Parks looks at Jeremy, as though questioning his intelligence. “It’s not my place to give you information, seeing as you’re not counsel for Mr. Lehrke.”  
  
“It’s me: Jeremy. Jeremy Stone? C’mon, you’re too young to go senile just yet.”  
  
There’s a flicker of recognition in Chief Parks’ eyes, and his gaze hardens curiously. “Ah, I thought you looked familiar. Must be the hair. Didn’t recognize you under all that.”  
  
Jeremy offers up a smile. “Good to see you too. How’s Vera?” Vera is the chief’s wife.  
  
“She’s just fine.”   
  
“You two have fun playing catch-up,” says Zebrowski. He crosses the main room, weaving around large wooden desks to the aged white coffee maker on the other side of the room. “Anybody want some bean juice?”  
  
Chief Parks makes a face, mutters, “I told him to stop calling it that.” He says to Zebrowski, “I could go for a cup. Gonna be a long night.” With a glance at Jeremy, he asks, “For you?”  
  
Jeremy knows from Casey that police station coffee is a step below drinking motor oil. “I’m good. Thanks.”  
  
“I hear you made it to Chicago,” Chief Parks says to Jeremy. “How’s the city treatin’ you?”  
  
Jeremy wants to hurry this along, wants to drop the bullshit and cut to the chase, but he knows the power of small-talk. He gives Chief Parks the rundown on his life in the city. Then: “So what’d you guys bring Eddie in for anyway?”  
  
“He had his mother's body sealed off in one of the rooms of his house,” Zebrowski says, pouring himself a mug of steaming coffee. “Probably her bedroom, by the looks of it. Unless he’s really into old-lady decor.”   
  
“How’d she die?”  
  
“She died of a heart attack a couple months ago,” says Chief Parks. “Ed was... a trifle upset at the funeral.”  
  
Jeremy looks through the glass at Eddie. Eddie is twisting his cap and staring at his hands, as if he's trying to focus hard enough to make the rest of the world disappear. Jeremy can only imagine how that funeral must have gone for Eddie, how it must feel to bury the person you love most. “Then why are you guys are grilling him about Isaac?”  
  
“We found the remains of Isaac Lehrke just outside of town off the highway,” Chief Parks answers. Apparently it doesn’t matter that Jeremy isn’t Eddie’s counsel; the chief is a fountain of information now. “We’re conducting an autopsy to determine a time and cause of death.”  
  
“And you think Eddie killed his own brother?”  
  
“He dug up his mother and kept her rotting body in the house!” Zebrowski snaps. Coffee sloshes out of the mug and splashes onto his hand. “God damn it,” he mutters, setting the mug on the counter.  
  
Jeremy sees where this is heading. “Look, we all had problems with Mary, but don't take it out on Eddie. He was just a kid.”  
  
Mary Lehrke was Eddie and Isaac's mother, and the once-owner of the town butcher shop.  
  
“And that woman was a boil on the ass of this fine town,” Chief Parks sneers. “She once had the gall to show up at our house and tell Vera to keep our ‘whore of a daughter’ away from her boys.” Just the memory has the tips of his ears burning red.  
  
“It’ll be a cold day in hell before I join the Mary Lehrke Fan Club, but Eddie’s suffered plenty for her,” says Jeremy.  
  
“He dug up her body,” Zebrowski repeats slowly, enunciating each word like Jeremy just isn't getting it. “And kept it in his house. I don't know what your friends are like, but that's not the sort of thing normal people do.”  
  
“It's a cry for help. He has no one.”  
  
“So where were you?” Chief Parks says, almost accusatory, and Jeremy burns under the sting of it. He deserved that one, though he can't help but internally rail against the expectation that he's supposed to be the sole support for a human being. You shouldn't be with someone because you're afraid of what will happen to them if you leave. That’s emotional hostage-taking, and it isn’t fair.  
  
Jeremy pushes this brief flare of resentment back underneath the surface from whence it came. He holds the feeling down until the swirling darkness swallows it. “Eddie didn't kill Isaac. If he had, the guilt would've destroyed him years ago.” Observing that neither man seems convinced, Jeremy shifts gears. “How did Isaac die?”  
  
“Hard to tell,” says Zebrowski. He has two mugs in his hands, and he moves toward Jeremy and the chief. “All we found were bones buried in the woods off the highway. Some kids looking for buried treasure found 'em. The remains are at the state crime lab being pieced together, but their preliminary report is blunt-force trauma.” He hands one mug to Chief Parks, who nods at him and takes a sip.  
  
“Pieced together?” Jeremy asks.  
  
“The bones were smashed up, like the killer was trying to cover his tracks.”  
  
“So he's clever. Does that sound like Eddie at all?”   
  
Zebrowski scowls at Jeremy with a startling amount of disdain for someone he’s only met today.  
  
“Eddie confessed to having a disagreement with his brother on the day Isaac went missing,” Chief Parks elaborates.   
  
“The same confession that's inadmissible?” Jeremy reminds him. Spend enough time with Casey and he rubs off on you. “And a disagreement doesn't always lead to murder.”  
  
“According to Eddie, it got physical.”  
  
“It's motive,” Zebrowski says, jumping in before Jeremy can protest. “They get into an argument over a girl, maybe Eddie shoves him. Isaac falls and hits his head, doesn't get up. Eddie panics and hides the body—”  
  
“Slow down. He said they argued over a girl?”  
  
Zebrowski shrugs his broad shoulders. “He wouldn't tell us what it was about, but, c'mon, what else do teenage boys fight over? They probably liked the same chick, and Eddie got jealous.”  
  
Jeremy quickly tries to read Chief Parks’ face. The chief hasn’t told his partner the reason why that theory doesn’t hold water. Interesting, though the truth doesn’t exactly exonerate Eddie. If Jeremy’s honest with himself, the truth gives Eddie even more motive to keep Isaac quiet.  
  
Jeremy tries another avenue. “Are you positive the bones are Isaac’s? I mean, if you're still piecing together the body—”  
  
“You think the experts at the lab don’t know how to identify a body?” says Zebrowski. “Just because Harvest is a small town doesn't mean we're a couple of bumblefucks who don't know what we're doing.”  
  
That's pretty much exactly what it means, but Jeremy doesn't want to belabor the point. “You're just doing your job,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender, “and I'm just doing mine.”  
  
“Which is?”  
  
Jeremy takes another glance at Eddie inside the interrogation room. “Looking out for him.”

* * *

“Alright, kid, tell me what the fuck's going on,” Casey says when the cops have left the room.  
  
“They found Isaac!” Eddie blurts out, his huge puzzled eyes staring at Casey.  
  
Casey wonders how to put this gently. He lowers himself into the chair across from Eddie, hoping the rickety-looking thing will hold his weight. The chair does not break. “Was Isaac, uh, was he the corpse the cops said you had?”  
  
“No, that was Ma,” Eddie says with a weird little smile, like having a dead body in your house is totally normal.  
  
 _Oh Jesus_. Nausea curls in Casey’s belly. He’s heard plenty of gruesome details in his time as a defense attorney, but something about corpses, the mental image of the long-dead, sends a shiver up his spine.  
  
“Start from the beginning,” Casey tells him, trying to pull Eddie back onto the tracks of linear storytelling. “Why were the cops at your house in the first place?”  
  
Eddie starts matter-of-factly, but his voice takes a downturn, as though he's struggling to keep his composure. “They told me they found Isaac's body off the highway. Said he'd been dead for a real long time. Then they asked if they could come in and look around—I guess the smell got their attention.”  
  
Casey swallows thickly, trying not to imagine what that smell must have been like. “The smell. You mean from the body?”  
  
Eddie's droopy eyelid sort of twitches. “I did the best I could with that,” he says, regretfully. “I’d done some practice before on deer and little animals that turned up on the farm after a freeze. For a while I thought about going into taxidermy or mortuary business, but I don’t much have the knack for talkin’ with folk.”  
  
Yeah, Casey’s getting a pretty good demonstration of that. “Okay, so they came in to your house and saw you had the body, then what?”  
  
“They said I should come along with them to the station, so I did. Chief Parks is good people.”  
  
“Did they read you your rights?”  
  
“No, nothin’ like that. They said I wasn’t under arrest, they just wanted to talk.”  
  
Casey scowls, turning over this information. “They got weaselly when I asked what the charge was. Almost like they know they've got nothing. They're just rattling the tree and waiting for something to fall out.”  
  
And it seems like something did, at least according to the cops.  
  
“What else did you say to them?” Casey asks Eddie.  
  
“Well, they brought me here, and asked me a lot of questions about Isaac. I got nervous, and I s’pose they could see it. The big guy pushed me against the wall, said I should start talkin’ if I knew what’s good for me. Then Chief Parks said I ought to call somebody. So I called Jer, and here we are.”  
  
“What did you tell them about what happened to Isaac?”  
  
“I just told them the truth,” says Eddie. “That it was my fault Isaac disappeared. And I think... I think I might've killed him.”  
  
“You  _think_? What, did you black out?”  
  
“Ma said it was my fault, so I must have done it. She wouldn’t lie about something like that. She wouldn’t lie  _ever_. But I don't remember doing it.”  
  
“Whoa, whoa, she said that? Like a voice in your head sort of thing?”  
  
Eddie looks puzzled Casey would even suggest that. “No, she was alive and well. I don’t hear voices in my head, Mr. Hanley.” His voice has an edge of offense, so Casey backs off the point.  
  
Casey’s gut tells him Eddie is innocent, but even in the worst-case scenario he can work towards an insanity defense. Or maybe Eddie’s covering for someone…  
  
“Well, kid, the good news is whatever they’re trying to pin on you for this corpse thing is a lost cause,” he says. “If there was something on the books, they would have arrested and charged you already.”  
  
Jeremy ducks back into the room. “What's this about an argument you had with Isaac?” he asks Eddie, striding towards the metal table in the center of the tiny room.   
  
“Get out of here,” Casey says, waving him off as though Jeremy is a bothersome gnat buzzing around his head.  
  
“He didn’t kill anyone,” Jeremy insists. “I’d bet my life on it.”  
  
“Would you bet his?”  
  
“Yes.” Zero hesitation.  
  
“Fine, but if you get subpoenaed, don’t come crying to me,” Casey grumbles.  
  
Jeremy sits in the empty seat beside Casey. “Tell us about the argument you had with Isaac.”  
  
Eddie draws in a breath and sort of shrinks into himself, like a small child frightened by thunder. His gaze flicks from Jeremy to Casey, surveying for a safe harbor.  
  
“C'mon, you already told the cops. If you can tell them, you can tell us.”  
  
Eddie briefly looks at Jeremy before diverting his gaze. When he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper. “Isaac found out I don't have much of an interest in women...” The way he says it implies the true meaning.   
  
Unshaken by the supposed bombshell, Casey asks, “So you're gay?” Eddie gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod. “How'd he find out?”  
  
“I don't know,” Eddie says with a shrug. “Isaac wanted to go out with girls, but Ma wouldn't let him. She said the town was full of harlots, and that women would turn men sinful.” They're lines from a script he's read a million times, absent of inflection and meaning, just words burned into his brain. Jeremy feels a spark of hope, as if this emotionless recitation is proof Eddie has cast aside his mother’s harmful teachings. “So Isaac was complainin' to me about Ma, and I just shrugged him off. He wondered why I wasn't frustrated about her rules like he was, and when I didn't really give him much of an answer he said somethin' like, 'I reckon you don't even like girls anyway.'” Chagrin climbs into Eddie’s cheeks like color in a thermometer. Jeremy can see how Isaac might have found the answer just by looking at the embarrassment on Eddie’s face.  
  
Casey glances at Jeremy for the briefest moment, and Jeremy feels stripped bare, revealed and exposed. “And is that when the argument turned physical?”  
  
Another head shake from Eddie. “He said he was gonna tell everyone at school. I begged him not to, then he shoved me and called me some awful names.”  
  
Even at twenty-six years old, Eddie still refuses to swear, sidestepping foul language with care. Jeremy can't tell if that's endearing or not.  
  
“Then what happened?” Casey urges.  
  
“I just laid there on the ground. Didn’t much feel like gettin’ up. Isaac got in his truck and drove off. I figured he was going someplace to blow off steam.”  
  
“And you never saw him again?”  
  
Eddie’s tender blue eyes turn even sadder.  
  
Casey stands up from his seat. “Hold tight, kid, we’re gettin’ you out of here.” He moves for the door and opens it, sticking his head out to talk to the cops. “You’ve got an inadmissible confession and no grounds to hold my client. If you don’t mind, we’ll be leaving now.”  
  
“Hold your horses, Counselor,” Chief Parks says, edging his way into the interrogation room. “He’s staying here. I can keep him for twenty-four hours if I damn well please.”  
  
Casey bristles, perhaps sensing there are small-town politics at play here. “Then I’ll go to the DA and raise a stink about how you’re holding an innocent man with no shred of evidence connecting him to a crime. And I’ll show them the bruises.”  
  
Chief Parks chuckles. “Son, I don’t think you know how things work here. The DA ain’t gonna listen to you over me. We go to the same parties, the same backyard barbecues. Hell, our kids went to the same schools. He don’t know you from Adam.”  
  
In Illinois, Casey is somewhat of a local celebrity. He takes high-profile cases and isn’t one to shirk under the media spotlight. Though he’s licensed to practice in multiple states, Jeremy fears Casey’s influence can only reach so far.  
  
“Then I’ll go to the media. I got friends too, pal. Friends in high places. I’ll have reporters from all over the country crawling up your ass,” Casey threatens.  
  
“It’s alright, Mr. Hanley,” Eddie speaks up, raising his voice in a rare moment of assertiveness. “I can wait twenty-four hours. Don’t make too much of a ruckus over me.”  
  
Casey exhales a whistling plume of breath. “Fine, if that’s what you want.” He shoos the cops out of the room, then it’s just Casey and Jeremy and Eddie. “Listen to me: don’t say a goddamn word to the cops, alright? Looks like these pricks have it out for you. You never have to take back words you don’t say.”  
  
“Promise me,” Jeremy tells him. Maybe Eddie will take this to heart if he hears it from the right person.  
  
Eddie promises. “If you need a place to stay for the night, I’ve got plenty of room at the farmhouse.”  
  
“I’m not staying in the corpse suite” Casey says. Jeremy slugs him gently in the shoulder. “Ow!”  
  
“That'd be nice,” says Jeremy. “Thanks.”  
  
“Just don’t go in the last room on the left. On the second floor,” Eddie says.  
  
“Well, now we  _have_  to go in.”  
  
Jeremy nudges Casey again. “Just ignore him when he’s not giving legal advice,” he tells Eddie.  
  
Eddie smiles, gazing at Jeremy with intrigue and fondness. “It’s great to see you again, Jer.”  
  
“Yeah…” Jeremy agrees around the lump in his throat.


	3. Chapter 3

Outside the police station in the dark of a late country night, Jeremy feels as though he has been transported back in time, like he’s standing in the shoes of his teenage self. He closes his eyes and tries to recapture some indescribable nostalgia.  
  
They climb into Casey's Oldsmobile and head for Eddie's family farm a few miles outside of town. As Jeremy drives through the snowy midnight, they pass by little shops and markets, The entire village is seemingly asleep at this hour.   
  
“Any reason the chief has such a hard-on for Eddie?” says Casey.  
  
“It’s probably got something to do with Eddie’s mother, Mary. She was a real ‘see you next Tuesday,’ if you know what I mean.”  
  
Casey works that one out in his head and laughs. “Wow, tell me how you really feel.”  
  
“You heard Eddie; she taught her boys that all women were sinful whores. It’s a toss-up whether they bought into that, but she sure as hell did. She owned the town butcher shop for a while. Pretty much everyone had to deal with her if they wanted a steak, but no one was thrilled about it.”  
  
“And since his mother was a raging bitch, Eddie gets punished for it,” Casey says, completing Jeremy’s train of thought.  
  
“The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, or so they say.”  
  
“Unless the tree’s on a hill, then the apple rolls all the way down.”  
  
Jeremy gives him a questioning look.  
  
“We’re not all doomed to repeat our parents’ mistakes,” says Casey. “At least I hope not.”  
  
The Lehrke farm sits on over a hundred acres of land buried under a blanket of snow that spans for miles. The house seems to have decayed somehow despite being inhabited. It’s a two-story structure held together with pale wood and prayers, surrounded by barren trees on all sides. The car rolls through the snow, stopping on what was once a dirt driveway but is now buried underneath the powdery white. Cold air nips at Jeremy's skin as he steps out into the quiet night.  
  
The Lerhke house has always felt deeply odd, a sense of unease magnified by how desolate Harvest is. There’s a reason this area is called Wisconsin’s cold, dead heart. Out here, far removed from the small, tightly-knit community, a scream would go unheard.  
  
What else, Jeremy wonders, went unheard in this house?  
  
Casey slides out of the car and says, "Why do I get the feeling there are more bodies in here?”  
  
Jeremy wants to defend the remaining scraps of Eddie's sanity, but he doesn’t know how to argue that one. They crunch through the snow and step onto the front porch. Jeremy tries the doorknob; Harvest is the sort of town where residents seldom lock their doors. The door opens with a creak noisy enough to echo into the nothingness. Jeremy creeps inside, like entering a black portal into the unknown.  
  
The first thing Jeremy notices is the smell. The horrible, meaty smell of decomposition lingers in the air, carrying hints of fetid corpse and death.  
  
"Ah, fuck," Casey mutters from behind, his words muffled by the leather sleeve of his jacket.   
  
Jeremy jumps at the sound of Casey’s voice. “Give me a goddamn heart attack.” Leaving the front door open so the moon can light his way, he fumbles through the pitch-dark living room, groping at the nearest lamp. He turns the switch once, twice. Nothing. “Shit.”  
  
More clicking, this time from the other side of the living room. Then Casey says, “Either all the lamps are busted, or there’s no electricity.”  
  
“Just our luck.” Jeremy briefly considers saying ‘fuck this’ and going to a motel outside of town for the night, but doing so would feel like an insult to Eddie. Eddie graciously offered up his home for Jeremy and Casey, probably the only thing he  _could_  offer them. And spending the night in Gumberry County’s creepiest house guarantees no one will try to rob or murder them while they sleep.  
  
Jeremy finds a box of matches on the kitchen table along with two candles. He strikes a match, and the orange glow brightens things up a bit yet somehow makes their surroundings look even more unnerving. He lights one of the candles. Shadows dance across the walls.  
  
With this newfound light, Jeremy sees a vague picture of the kitchen and some of the living room. He'd been expecting a dingy, unkept mess with debris strewn across the floor, boxes and books stacked to the ceiling in messy piles. But from what Jeremy can tell, the house is pristine. Dishes are neatly stacked and shelved in the cupboard. There are no crumbs or stains on the hardwood floor. The stovetop and range has been scrubbed clean, leaving no traces of spills or splashes. Eddie probably hasn’t had much to do lately, so maybe cleaning became his new distraction.  
  
Casey moves for the cabinets, searching through them for food. “You want beans or… beans?”  
  
“I think I’ll just skip dinner tonight.”  
  
“Probably a good idea.” Casey shuts the pantry doors. “Let’s hope this place has running water, at least.” He lights himself a candle and carries it up the stairs by the shiny golden candleholder. The ancient wooden floorboards creak under his weight. “If you hear me scream, it’s too late. Save yourself.”  
  
Jeremy knows Casey is making a joke, but he can’t find it within himself to laugh. “You think this place is haunted?”  
  
“I don’t know, but it’s creepy as fuck,” Casey says, now at the top of the stairs. He heads down the hall, and his candlelight disappears along with him.  
  
There’s nothing quite like the silence of the countryside. Calling it ‘deafening’ seems like a cliche, but the thing about cliches is that sometimes they’re dead on. In the stillness, the pipes come to life, and Jeremy hears the faint spray of the shower from upstairs. He can make out almost every individual needle of water hitting the surface of the tub, then the rusty scrape of shower rings as Casey pushes the curtain aside.   
  
Jeremy decides to take a tour of the house. Despite his close friendship with Eddie, he has never set foot inside the Lehrke house until tonight. According to Eddie, Mary wasn’t too keen on either of her children having friends unless she approved of them and their families. This approval was practically nonexistent, because Mary could find something offensive and appalling about everyone. So rather than subject Jeremy to that scrutiny, Eddie never invited him over.  
  
The first floor is somewhat self-explanatory, so Jeremy heads upstairs, bringing along a lit candle for illumination. The surrounding darkness unnerves Jeremy, now that he’s stuck in this small sphere of dim light. He hopes nothing decides to jump out at him like a second-rate scare in a bad horror movie. The furthest door on the right is what Jeremy presumes to be the guest bathroom. He opens the door to its left.  
  
Isaac's room appears to be the same as it had been when he inhabited it, with its peeling floral wallpaper, groups of plastic army men stationed along the wooden chest of drawers, Green Bay Packers pennants pinned above the headboard. It's as though Eddie kept everything the way it was, so that it would all feel right to Isaac if he ever returned. Jeremy slips out of the room, deciding against intruding here.  
  
The next door leads to Eddie’s bedroom. More floral wallpaper covers the walls. The bed looks like an army cot, with a worn, aged mattress and a metal frame that sits low to the ground. A quilt and a chunky knit throw hang over one side of the bed. Nailed on the wall above the bed is a calendar displaying the current month, previous days crossed out with thick black lines.  
  
An ancient trunk serves as a night table, and Jeremy steps closer to examine the items atop it. There is a stack of books, each volume with weathered, worn corners; it seems Eddie’s a fan of Stephen King, Richard Bachman, and Dean Koontz. A small lamp sits beside the books; Jeremy tries the switch, but no dice. There’s a framed photograph on top of the trunk. Jeremy lifts the picture, afraid it might fall apart in his hand. Through the clear glass of the frame, he sees that familiar photograph of himself and Eddie staring back at him.   
  
He has a vague idea of when the picture was taken: May 1973, because Jeremy had gotten a Polaroid camera for his birthday that year. He’s the one taking the picture, given how his arms are reaching for something out of frame and toward the viewer. Eddie must have treasured this, his only tangible reminder of his friend’s existence after Jeremy fled to Chicago. Had Eddie hidden it inside one of these books until Mary’s passing, finally deeming it safe to display after she was gone?   
  
Various boxes litter the floor, each one containing a small collection of books. The boxes appear to have once housed cleaning products in bulk, according to the brand names and pictures printed on their sides. A rocking chair sits in the corner by the window. Jeremy takes in the sad state of Eddie’s life with a glance and moves on to the next room.   
  
The next door leads to a coat closet. Inside are Eddie’s winter coats, with their thick fleece linings and lined collars. There are extra rolls of paper products on the top shelf, folded towels and blankets on the bottom.   
  
Moving on, Jeremy sees it: the last room on the left. The door is closed, and curiosity beckons him closer. As he steps toward the door, his hand poised to turn the knob, a sudden sigh of cool air rushes past him. Jeremy freezes in place, his brain scrambling to rationalize what just happened. Just a gust of wind passing through. The house is old; there are probably plenty of cracks between the siding where air could whistle through.   
  
He isn’t sure if he really believes that, but what’s the alternative explanation? A ghost? Jeremy doesn’t know where he stands on the existence of ghosts, but even if they are real, they probably can’t hurt anyone the way they do in the movies.   
  
Besides, Eddie trusted Jeremy to stay the night here, and how did he repay that trust? By rummaging through the house and attempting to trespass in the one room Eddie said not to enter. Jeremy feels a little guilty for the snooping he’s done here already. Best to leave some things alone. For now.  
  
As Jeremy walks away, a chilling thought runs through him: was that the room that held Mary Lehrke’s decomposing body?   
  


* * *

Later, the house is devastatingly silent as Casey and Jeremy lie in bed. They have taken up temporary residence in Eddie’s room, and Jeremy's a little surprised to see the bed holds up under his and Casey's combined weight.   
  
“This is what I was afraid of,” Jeremy murmurs, snuggled against Casey's warm girth.   
  
“Being in a creepy house with no electricity?”  
  
“Of seeing what Eddie's turned into. That's why I never came back. ‘Cause I knew he'd be different, and it'd be my fault for not sticking around.”  
  
“So why’d you leave?”  
  
“I had to get out of here.” Jeremy has never spoken this aloud. It makes him sound selfish and callous, and he hates the sound of it. He hates the truth in it. “I begged him to come with me, but he didn’t want to leave his mother alone. And if I stayed, I knew we’d be miserable until that old crone kicked the bucket.” He sniffles, and the faint stench of death roots into his nostrils. “I was the only thing keeping him sane, and I left anyway. God… I’m a piece of shit.”   
  
Jeremy begins to cry, but something stops his tears like an internal faucet has been shut off. This inability to express one of the simplest emotions frustrates him, and he curls into Casey as though intimacy might start up his sobs again.  
  
“You’re not a piece of shit.” Casey hugs Jeremy tighter against his side. Jeremy reaches up, fingers toying with the jet black tufts that have shaken loose from Casey's pompadour. “You remember what I told you about my dad?”  
  
Jeremy’s never met the man, but the few times Casey's spoken about his father have painted a disturbing picture.  
  
“Now there’s a real piece of shit. Actually, that’s kind of insulting to the shit,” Casey says. “But anyway, nothing I ever did was good enough for him. He'd knock me around, yell at me, call me a pansy. All the abusive dad classics on one cassette!”  
  
Putting aside the flippant tone, Jeremy thinks Eddie and Casey have a lot in common.  
  
“One time I was playing in the backyard—I must've been about six or seven—and we had this swingset Dad put there after my sister was born. And she's swinging on it, then she swings back and—bam—hits me in the head, knocks me right to the ground. Of course, I start crying, Claire rushes over to me and apologizes—”  
  
“How do you get hit by a swing? Wouldn't you see it coming? Or at least know not to play in the vicinity of swings?”  
  
Casey sighs like Jeremy's being purposely difficult, which, yeah, he kind of is. “I don't know. I was a bit of a bumblebutt, okay?”  
  
“ _Was_?”  
  
“Fuck off,” Casey huffs with a smirk. “Anyway, my dad, who's been sitting on the back porch drinking and watching all of this, starts laughing like it's the funniest goddamn thing in the world. He said something like, 'put those tears back in your eyes where they belong. I wanted a son, not some weeping, dickless little girl.'” He affects a voice for his father’s words that sounds like John F. Kennedy, which for some reason strikes Jeremy as amusing. “I ran inside the house and found my mother. She was cooking dinner—I remember the smell: chicken pot pie. I told her what happened, and I asked her why he was so mean. She said some people are just born broken. Like black holes, impossible to fill.”  
  
“That's some pretty heavy shit to lay on a seven-year-old.”  
  
“Maybe. But she helped me understand my dad acted like a dick because that's who he was, and that none of it was my fault. If I grew up internalizing all that shit like your boy Eddie...”  
  
Jeremy doesn’t speak for a moment, then lets his words punctuate the quiet. “Do you think Eddie's a lost cause?”  
  
“I don't diagnose crazy. I just advocate for it.”   
  
“C’mon, don’t give me that hands-off lawyer bullshit. Be honest with me.”  
  
“I don't know,” Casey says. “Obviously digging up his dead mother and keeping her body around the house like a taxidermied pet is... a little south of sane. But I don't think he'd hurt anybody.”  
  
That's not exactly what Jeremy asked, but he's not going to press the issue. If Casey wants to dodge that conversational brick, fine. Maybe it's better that way.   
  
Jeremy closes his eyes, but sleep does not come until Casey's soft snores fill the room.


	4. Chapter 4

_August 1967_  
  
Jeremy's mother wore a white dress with yellow flowers when Eddie came to dinner. He remembered this because her dress almost matched their tablecloth. He and Eddie had walked here from school, and the inside of the house smelled like garlic bread when they opened the front door.  
  
“You must be Eddie,” Mom said with a welcoming smile. “It's very nice to meet you.”  
  
Eddie nodded, looking flustered. “Thank you for inviting me, Missus Stone.”  
  
“No need to be so formal. Just call me Linda.”  
  
Eddie seemed scandalized at the idea of calling a grown woman by her first name instead of “Ma’am.”   
  
“Why don’t you boys get settled? Supper will be ready soon,” Mom said, heading into the kitchen to finish preparing dinner. There wasn't much for Jeremy to help her with, and Dad wasn't home from work yet, so he gave Eddie a small tour of the house. Eddie gasped in stunned surprise that they had a television set, and he seemed generally impressed by everything, even the everyday conveniences Jeremy thought were household staples. Jeremy showed him the small fishtank in the living room, and Eddie was enraptured by the three colorful fish swimming around in the azure water.  
  
Eventually, they made it upstairs. “You sure got a lot of stuff!” Eddie said, tentatively stepping inside Jeremy's bedroom and looking around. The room wasn't fancy by any means, and most of his possessions were silly things: Green Bay Packers pennants, trading cards of baseball's greats, photos and framed records of Elvis Presley and The Beatles. Eddie found the crate of comic books and carefully sifted through them. “Your folks bought you all these?” he wondered aloud.  
  
There were only about ten comics to Jeremy's name, but that probably seemed like a lot to Eddie.   
  
“Yeah,” said Jeremy.  
  
Eddie abandoned the comics in favor of a toy robot on Jeremy's desk. He turned the toy over in his hands, like a jeweler inspecting a diamond. “Where do you get all this stuff?”  
  
“Cedar Pass has a lot of stuff we don't have here. Then sometimes we go to the Rapids on the weekends.” Cedar Pass was Harvest’s neighbor town, but Wisconsin Rapids, northwest of Harvest, was a much bigger city in comparison, with a larger selection of stores, a movie theater, and even its own zoo.  
  
“Sure is a lot,” said Eddie.  
  
Jeremy wondered what Eddie's room looked like.  
  
They stayed in Jeremy's room reading comic books until Mom called them for dinner. Eddie tried to help set the table, but Mom shooed him away. “You’re a guest, dear. Don’t trouble yourself,” she said, so Eddie just sat in one of the vacant chairs at the dinner table, pretending not to look at Jeremy.  
  
“Usually we wait until Jeremy's father gets home before we eat,” Mom said, “but this is a special occasion. Peter will understand.”  
  
“What's so special about it?” Eddie wondered.  
  
“Well, you're here. Jeremy doesn't bring friends over very often.”  
  
Jeremy sighed. “Mom.”  
  
“I guess he thinks we'll embarrass him.” Mom chuckled to herself and began serving out the lasagna. “So, Eddie, where are you from?”  
  
Since Eddie and Jeremy had just met at school this year, he wasn't from Harvest, else they would already have known each other.  
  
“La Crosse, ma'am—er, Miss Linda. Ma had us move here on account of buying a farm outside of town. Pa tends the fields, and Ma owns the butcher shop.”  
  
“Your parents sound like hard workers,” Mom said with approval.  
  
“They sure are.” Eddie nodded. “Jeremy, what's your dad do?”  
  
“He's a chemistry professor at UW-Stevens.”  
  
Eddie made a confused face.  
  
“University of Wisconsin-Stevens,” Jeremy explained. “It's up north in Stevens Point.”  
  
“He must be real smart, huh?”  
  
“Yeah, I guess. He's a lot of help on science projects.”  
  
The front door unlocked, and Jeremy's father, Peter Stone, came through the door. He looked the part of a college professor: perfectly-pressed khakis, a sweater vest, a bald spot growing more prominent each day, and huge glasses that took up most of his face.   
  
“Speak of the devil,” Mom said teasingly, “and he shall appear.”  
  
Dad noticed the gathering at the table. “Oh, you must be Eddie. Jeremy's told us plenty about you.”  
  
“Nice to meet you, sir,” Eddie said meekly. “Thank you for havin’ me.”  
  
“It's no trouble at all. Happy to have you here.”  
  
Once they were all seated and served, Dad said, “What's an average day like for you, Eddie?”  
  
“Well, I wake up and go to school, then I come home and help Ma with the chores, and I go to bed,” Eddie said, poking at his pile of lasagna with his fork.  
  
“What about fun? What do you like to do in your spare time?”  
  
Jeremy shot Dad a curious look.  
  
Dad explained, “I'm trying to figure out where to take you boys sometime. The Rapids has plenty of fun things to do. What’d’ya say, Ed?”  
  
Eddie shook his head. “That’s real kind of you, Mr. Stone, but I don't think that's a good idea. Ma gets real sore if I'm gone too long.”  
  
“I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you asked,” Mom said, but judging by her tone she already knew the answer. Folks in town know about Mary’s strict rules around the household.  
  
“I s'pose I could...” Eddie said in acquiesce, not comfortable pressing the issue.  
  
After dinner, Mom asked if Eddie needed a ride home.  
  
“No, ma'am, I'm fine walkin'.”  
  
“All by yourself?”  
  
“I can go with him,” Jeremy volunteered. “I always do, after school.”  
  
“No, no, I'll drive you,” Mom said. “No sense in making you walk all that way this late.”  
  
Eddie froze but agreed to the offer.  
  
So Mom drove Eddie home, with Jeremy in the back seat hoping to squeeze out all the time with Eddie that he could. But Mom was more interested in finding out more about Eddie.  
  
“You said you two walk home together?” she asked as they drove.  
  
Jeremy felt oddly exposed, like Mom knew about the weird feeling he got in his stomach around Eddie. But he decided to answer in case Eddie felt exposed too. “Yeah, we get off at a different bus stop and walk the rest of the way.”  
  
“You’ve never been over to Eddie’s house?” asked Mom.  
  
“Ma doesn't like me havin' visitors,” Eddie said. “A couple times I told her about friends I'd made back in primary school, an' she’d rant and rave about how sinful their folks were. She’d really work herself up about it. So now I keep my friends to myself.”  
  
Mom gave Jeremy a worried look through the rear-view mirror. “Does your mother know you had dinner with us?”  
  
“No, I didn't tell her,” Eddie murmured, ashamed by this act of self-preservation. “Figured it was better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.”  
  
“I don't want you getting in trouble for our sake, okay? If your mom doesn't want you doing something, maybe it's best if you listen to her, at least until you're old enough to decide for yourself.”  
  
Jeremy tried to give his mother an “are you fucking serious? His mother is crazy!” look through the rear-view mirror. She didn’t get it.  
  
Eddie didn't say anything, but he looked troubled.  
  
“Eddie, listen to me,” Mom said, “adults aren't always right. They're just people, and they make mistakes too, just like everyone else. If something feels wrong, trust your intuition.”  
  
As much as Jeremy appreciated her words of wisdom, he wanted her to stop talking. He and Eddie rarely, if ever, discussed Mary's fire-and-brimstone demeanor or Charles' drunkenness. The shit-show that was Eddie's family haunted the periphery of every conversation but did not intrude. And Jeremy feared if Mom kept going, she'd trip an emotional landmine inside of Eddie, and he'd shut himself away where no one could save him.  
  
But Eddie just nodded, which seemed to be his go-to reaction when he didn't know how to respond to something but wanted to acknowledge he'd heard it. “Can you turn up here, please?”  
  
Mom did as he asked. The Lehrkes owned over 200 acres of land about six miles outside of town, almost right on the Bancroft-Harvest border. Jeremy could see the house off in the distance surrounded by nothing but farmland.  
  
“That's your house?” Mom asked.  
  
“Yes, ma'am. But you can just stop here, if you don't mind. I'll walk the rest of the way.”  
  
“Did I say something wrong?”  
  
“No, no, you're quite all right. But I don't want Ma seein' me with 'sinful folk.'” Eddie said it in a way that implied he didn't mean those words, that he was just repeating what his mother would say.  
  
Jeremy saw Mom's saddened expression, but she tried to bring back the smile for Eddie's sake. “Alright. I certainly don't want you getting in trouble. It was lovely having you over and getting to know you, Eddie. You’re welcome over any time.”  
  
Eddie gave her a smile in return and opened the car door. “Thanks, Missus Stone—I mean, Linda. You have a real nice home.”  
  
They said their goodbyes, then Eddie was out the door. He began to cut through the vast field surrounding his home. Mom watched him as though he was her own.  
  
“Does Eddie ever talk about his parents with you?” she asked.  
  
Jeremy shook his head, gave a teenage shrug. “Not really. Why?”  
  
“If they were...”—Mom paused, perhaps wondering how to put this in a way that Jeremy would understand—“hurting him, do you think he would tell you about it?”  
  
“I've never seen any bruises, if that's what you mean.”  
  
“If you do, or if he ever says they are, will you promise you'll tell me?” There was a pleading in her voice Jeremy had never heard before.   
  
“Yeah, of course.”  
  


* * *

 _November 1980_  
  
With the morning comes a familiar dreariness so characteristic of a Wisconsin winter. Jeremy awakens sluggishly, as though thawing, like the cold has permeated the blankets and turned his bones to ice. He rubs his eyes. There’s a noise coming from outside, something akin to a low chatter. Jeremy slides out of bed, his socked feet padding over to the window. He hooks a finger around the curtain’s edge and peers out.  
  
Down below, numerous cars and news vans dot the Lehrke property, with a few reporters and cameramen scurrying back and forth. It seems the entire town is parked out there, or at least all the journalists and news reporters within a three-town radius.  
  
Jeremy ducks away from the window before he’s spotted by an eagle-eye reporter. He’d forgotten how quickly news travels in Harvest. Chief Parks likely mentioned having Eddie in lock-up to his wife, who might have let it slip to her friends. The gruesome discovery of Mary Lehrke’s exhumed corpse, as well as the excavation of long lost Isaac’s remains, means the whole town is salivating for answers.  
  
“Casey.” Jeremy nudges him until Casey grunts a noise of irritation. “The press is out there.”  
  
Casey yawns, scratches his stomach as he sits up. “What's going on?”  
  
“Look out the window.”  
  
Casey rolls out of bed and lumbers to the window, pushing aside the heavy curtains. “Small towns,” Casey says with a sigh. “We’re in agreement that you talking to them is a bone-headed move?”  
  
“You’re the PR expert.”  
  
“Alright, gimme a minute, and I’ll give ‘em the kiss-off.” Casey exits the bedroom, then Jeremy hears the sound of running water from the next room.  
  
Jeremy creeps downstairs, avoiding the windows, but the thick curtains betray no movement from behind them. However, Casey’s Oldsmobile and Eddie’s bulbous Ford truck parked in the snow belie the possibility that the house is empty. Through a tiny sliver in the curtains, Jeremy sees the frenzy of reporters is still out there, waiting for a juicy tidbit.  
  
Rather than brave the throng of media standing outside and, later, the townspeople for a warm breakfast at the diner, Jeremy rummages through the pantry. He finds half-empty cereal boxes, but there’s no milk. He sticks a hand into a box of corn flakes, finds the toy promised on the packaging is gone. This endears and angers him at once. Endearing because Eddie still carries an almost childlike innocence with him, naivete untarnished by the abuse he suffered at the hands of his mother. Angering because that same mother manipulated Eddie into subservience, her cruel sermons intent on isolating him from society. Eddie missed her so much that he dug up her body, wholly believing she was the only person who could truly love him.   
  
And the jury’s still out on if she did.  
  
Casey lopes down the stairs, clad in yesterday’s jeans, a thick flannel shirt, and his leather jacket. A red scarf is wrapped around his neck, its fringes tucked into the neck of his shirt. “What’s cookin’, good-lookin’?”  
  
“Probably just oatmeal,” Jeremy says, jostling the contents of an oatmeal tin.  
  
“We both know I don't eat anything that won't give me a heart attack by the time I'm forty.”  
  
“Maybe I’m sentimental, but I want you around a little while longer.”  
  
Normally, this light banter would be cause for Casey to move in and wrap an arm around Jeremy’s waist, to push Jeremy up against the kitchen counter the same way he’s done countless times before in their shared apartment. But it’s like Casey knows intuitively that something has changed, that being in such close proximity to Eddie has disintegrated certain parts of their relationship, possibly for good. So Casey just smirks and says, “Alright, fuck me up on those grains.”   
  
Jeremy hears the volume of the clamour peak as Casey opens the front door, then it’s muffled again when the door closes behind him. But the house is quiet enough to let their voices carry loud and clear. As the water boils for the morning’s oatmeal, Jeremy listens to Casey:  
  
“Neither myself nor my client wish to speak with the media at this time. Given that this is private property, I’m going to ask you to leave. If anyone is still trespassing after five minutes, I will press charges on behalf of my client.”   
  
Casey slips back into the house, slamming the front door. “Fuckin' jackals,” he growls under his breath. For good measure, he drags a nearby chair across the floor and props it up against the knob. “I don’t trust these backwoods yokels.”  
  
“Careful who you call a backwoods yokel,” Jeremy says gently, almost teasing. “We’re everywhere.”  
  
“Aw, c’mon, you know I don’t mean you.” Casey snags one of the prepared bowls of oatmeal. He tests his weight in a chair at the dining table before fully sitting in it. “These people never left. They think it’s their God-given right to stick their noses in everybody’s business.”  
  
Jeremy switches off the burner on the stove. “I don’t think the sense of community is necessarily a bad thing.” He takes the other bowl and joins Casey at the table.  
  
“Well, they make my job harder, so fuck ‘em.”  
  
Jeremy doesn’t take offense. He knows the real root of Casey’s anger: where was the outraged community when Casey needed them?   
  
As Casey and Jeremy eat, the murmurs from outside the house begin to fade. There are distant slams of car doors, the low roar of engines firing up and taking off. It’s peacefully quiet for a minute or two, then a brisk knock at the back door startles them both.  
  
“Since when do nosy reporters knock?” Casey wonders. He rises from the chair and moves to the back door. Jeremy can’t see him or the mystery guest, but he can listen.  
  
“I’m not from the media!” a jovial male voice says almost defensively, and something about that voice strikes Jeremy as familiar. “Let me guess: you’re Eddie’s attorney?”  
  
“That’s right. Casey Hanley.”  
  
“I’m Mike Parks. I hope you don’t hold it against me, being the chief’s son and all. But I’m off-duty right now. I heard Jeremy was back in town. Thought we could catch up on old times.”  
  
Jeremy chokes on a gasp. Jesus, he hasn’t spoken to Mike since he left Harvest.  
  
“Jer,” Casey hollers into the kitchen, “there’s some nerd at the door for you.”  
  
Jeremy dons the shoes and coat he shed by the back door last night. “I got it,” he tells Casey, who retreats to the kitchen. He opens the door just enough to slip through without letting too much cold air along with him. Mike's expression brightens when he sees Jeremy. He looks very much like the teenager Jeremy shared classes with at Cedar Pass High, but his features are a bit sharper and more defined. In an odd way, he reminds Jeremy of an alternate version of Eddie who grew up to be better adjusted; they both have lopsided smirks, soft-angled faces, and dark, tousled hair.  
  
“Long time no see,” Mike says.  
  
Jeremy wonders if he should apologize for the radio silence these past eight years. Instead, he says, “Good to see you again.”  
  
“Where’ve you been all this time?”   
  
“Chicago.”  
  
“No shit? What’d you end up doing?”  
  
“I’m a chef.”  
  
Mike’s eyes widen. “Wow. Color me surprised.”  
  
“Same here. I thought you made it out of Harvest.”  
  
“I take after my dad,” Mike says with a ‘what can you do’ shrug.  
  
“Never really pegged you as the type to follow in his footsteps.”  
  
“There isn't a huge job market for chasing ghosts, so I figured chasing real-life killers was the next best thing.”  
  
“Business is booming,” Jeremy says with a humorless laugh.  
  
They walk along the treeline of the property, boots crunching over snow across the frozen backyard. It feels strange talking with Mike again after being apart for so long, after sharing almost every day of their teenage lives together. “Do you and Eddie still talk?” Jeremy asks. He hopes someone has been here to look after Eddie.  
  
“Not as much as we used to. But that’s to be expected.” Mike opens his mouth as if to say more, stops. He starts again. “I did the best I could with him. We’d meet up for shakes at the diner, and my mom would make up odd jobs around the house to give him a reason to come over. I really tried not to let him get too isolated, but…”   
  
“It’s not your fault,” Jeremy says, trusting that Mike has been a good friend in his absence. Maybe it’s like Casey said: some people are just born broken.  
  
“Have you talked to him since the arrest?”  
  
“He’s not under arrest,” Mike says, suddenly in cop mode. “And I think we both know Eddie's not in the right state of mind to go, uh, for lack of a better word, digging up the past. And depending on what actually went down, his recollections might be hazy at best and nonexistent at worst. So I was wondering if you could help me out.”  
  
“I don’t think I should be talking to the cops.”  
  
“I’m here as Mike the friend. I want to clear Eddie’s name just as much as you do.”  
  
“Alright,” Jeremy says with a nod. They continue walking along the treeline. Besides the two of them, everything is still, as though the snow has deadened every sound.  
  
“What do you remember about the day Isaac disappeared?”  
  
Jeremy's brain spins, dusting off infrequently accessed memories. “School was almost out for winter break. I dropped Eddie off at his place, then I went to the diner and bought a hamburger. I remember... I was upset,” he says, his breath smoking in the cold air. “'Cause I asked Eddie the day before if he wanted to leave Harvest with me when we turned eighteen, but he said no. I felt bad about asking him ‘cause we argued a little about it, and I said some things I regret.”  
  
“What kind of things?”  
  
“I said his mom was horrible, and if he stayed he’d become just like her.” Jeremy cringes away from the memory, though it’s not as if he doesn’t stand by the sentiment expressed in it. “But I didn’t wanna go home, ‘cause whenever I was sad my mom would always try to make me feel better. But this time she couldn’t. There was nothing she could say to get Eddie to leave with me. So there didn’t seem to be a point to talking about it. I stayed at the diner ‘til a little after dinner time, then I went home.”  
  
“What was Eddie like afterwards?”  
  
“You saw him at school every day after that. You know.”  
  
Mike gives him a sympathetic frown. “Eddie said it was his fault. We have to follow up on that.” Mike is only doing his job. It’s to be expected, and it’s probably not easy investigating one of your childhood friends. And it’s definitely not easy to toe the line between investigator and curious friend.  
  
“That doesn't change anything,” says Jeremy. “He was devastated. And his bitch of a mother blamed him for chasing Isaac off. But even through all that, Eddie was still there for me when my dad lost his shit and left. Eddie's always been a better person than me. There's no way he could've done this.”  
  
“I can’t really take your word for it, as much as I’d like to.”  
  
“What's your unprofessional opinion? Do you really think he could've killed his own brother?”  
  
What would Jeremy think if he didn't know Eddie so intimately?  
  
Mike gives him a solemn, almost empathetic look that makes Jeremy profoundly uneasy. “I believe anyone is capable of anything.”


	5. Chapter 5

After Mike leaves, Jeremy sits at the dining table with Casey, forcing down lumpy spoonfuls of flavorless oatmeal. A mild fire crackles in the fireplace to heat up the bone-chilling house. Jeremy's sitting on a rigid wooden chair frayed with splinters, and he wonders how Eddie can live comfortably in this dismal place.   
  
“First things first,” Casey says, wiping his mouth with a dishrag that looks like a handkerchief in his meaty paw, “we need to figure out who Isaac was, most importantly in the days or weeks before his death. If Eddie didn't kill him, that means someone else did.”  
  
“My God, you are astute.”  
  
“Please don’t shun me for my gifts.” Casey shovels in another spoonful. “So what’d your buddy want?”  
  
Jeremy gives him the rundown on Mike Parks. Casey’s shaking his head when Jeremy finishes. “I thought you knew better than to talk to the cops.”  
  
“He wasn’t always a cop. He was my friend first.”  
  
“And his fucking dad is the police chief? In no way do I see any of this being a problem.”  
  
Jeremy brushes off Casey’s sarcasm and tone. Casey is a brusque Chicagoan, accustomed to the bustle and cutthroat nature of a city that’s spawned and sheltered some of the country’s most infamous killers and politicians. Raised by a cruel father and thrown into the fast-paced world of the court system, Casey developed a sharp attitude to best deal with and dismiss his challenges. It’s just his way, as Mom would say.   
  
“Mike’s on our side,” says Jeremy. “This is good. We need someone on the inside willing to work with us instead of against us.”  
  
“And you don’t think he’ll change his tune about Eddie the minute something incriminating turns up?”  
  
“Look, I know Eddie,” Jeremy pleads, and, before Casey can protest: “And, yes, I also know that means jack shit to you. But I’m willing to bet it all on his innocence.”  
  
Casey takes a moment to consider this, then he nods. “Alright. I’m trusting you, Jer-Bear. Don’t make me regret it.”  
  


* * *

Twenty minutes later, Jeremy and Casey meet Eddie in the holding cell at the Harvest police station. The cell is a dank, depressing slab of grey in the basement of the building. Eddie looks a little worse for the wear: his blue eyes are rimmed with red, dark circles underneath them indicating a lack of sleep. But his expression is all excitement.  
  
“Sure is nice to see you again, fellas,” he says, and it breaks Jeremy’s heart to look at him through these steel bars. “Any news?”  
  
“Not yet. We need to ask you a few questions first,” Casey starts. “Do you remember what was going on in Isaac’s life around the time he disappeared?”  
  
“Shouldn’t the cops be askin’ all this?”  
  
“The cops think you did it,” Jeremy reminds him. “They’re not gonna chase down other leads. That’s our job now.”  
  
Eddie nods, his fingers moving over the bars. “Well, me and Isaac grew apart those last couple of years, so we didn't really talk much to each other. He had his world, I had mine.”  
  
“You lived in the same house,” Jeremy says. “The same quiet house. Maybe you overheard an argument between him and your mother?”  
  
Eddie's mouth quirks in that way of his when he's thinking hard about something. “That could be. But if I did, I don’t remember. I tried not to eavesdrop. Just ‘cause a fella can listen in doesn’t mean he should.”  
  
“Did Isaac ever mention pissing anyone off?” Casey prods.  
  
Eddie opens his mouth, closes it.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I just don't know who'd have half a mind to be a killer 'round here. Pretty much everyone is decent folk.”  
  
Jeremy pokes at that one. “Pretty much?”  
  
Eddie sort of shrugs, his gaze veering off to something at Jeremy's left. “A couple'a days before Isaac went missing, he told me he caught Fred Wilson steppin' out on his wife. It was hunting season, and according to Isaac, Fred was hunting more than just deer.”  
  
“How'd he find out?”  
  
“Said he followed him one day, all the way to the Rapids, and said he saw Fred cavortin' with a lady who most certainly wasn't his wife.”  
  
“Did this ever come up when you were questioned back then?” Casey asks.  
  
Eddie shakes his head. “Wasn’t much questioning bein’ done. Folks just assumed he’d run away, not that someone had hurt him.”  
  
“Right, okay. So you think Isaac spilled the beans on this Fred Wilson?”  
  
“It’s possible, I suppose.”  
  
Jeremy sees the glint in Casey's eye. “Well,” Casey says, “sounds like we need to talk to this guy. If he's hiding something, that's great for you. More motives, more reasonable doubt.”  
  
“You want me to hang around?” Jeremy suggests to Eddie. “Casey can talk with this guy on his own.”  
  
“'M alright. You two go on.”  
  
“You'll be alone,” Jeremy says, knowing full well what that means for Eddie.  
  
“I'll make do.” Eddie supplies a quick reassuring smile. “I survived eight years without you; I reckon I can last a couple hours.”   
  
Coming from anyone else, those words would be wrapped with passive-aggressive barbs, but from Eddie they're just a plain statement of capability. Yet Jeremy still feels pricked by them, cut deeply by the subtext.  
  
“Alright, if you say so.”  
  
Eddie gives them directions to Fred Wilson's red-roofed farmhouse, then they’re on their way.   
  
“Did he roast you back there, or was that his attempt at a joke?” Casey wonders as they make the two mile drive.  
  
“Eddie's not passive-aggressive. I don't know where he would've learned it. Mary was just straight-up aggressive.”  
  
“But you're still wearing your woe-is-me face.”  
  
“I've told you a million times: that's just how my face looks.”   
  
Casey's not buying it.  
  
Jeremy sighs, slumping a little in the passenger seat. “Every single day, I wonder what my life would've been like if I'd stayed with Eddie instead of running off.”  
  
“Nothing wrong with that. Everybody wonders about the path not taken.” Casey’s not wounded by the admission in the slightest, and Jeremy loves him for it.  
  
“But I think he resents me for leaving.”  
  
“Doesn't seem like it. One off-handed comment shouldn't spit in the face of your whole friendship.”  
  
Jeremy pops open the glove box, just to give himself something to do, and at least five Elvis cassette tapes spill into his lap. He stuffs the tapes back inside.  
  
Fred Wilson's house has certainly seen better days. The paint of its cream-colored exterior flakes like dry skin. A few of the shingles are missing from the roof, and an ancient white truck is parked in the driveway.  
  
Casey stops the car on the street, and they walk up the gravel path to the front door. Jeremy knocks three times in quick, sharp raps.  
  
“Can we get in trouble for this?” Jeremy wonders while they wait.  
  
“If he asks us to leave, then we’d better. We're just looking to shake something loose.”  
  
No answer.   
  
“Fred Wilson?” Jeremy calls. He knocks again, then moves to peer through the front window screen. He can't see much, but he doesn't need to. A sharp, inhuman whine sounds from the rear, near the small shed in the back yard. Jeremy heads for the source of the noise. Casey's heavy footsteps pound behind him.  
  
“Don't make me run,” Casey huffs, but still keeping pace. “My heart’ll explode.”  
  
As they near the shed, another shrill howl breaks out, and Jeremy recognizes it as canine. It could belong to a dog, or maybe Wilson bagged himself a wolf roaming through the thick woods surrounding the property.  
  
The shed door swings open. A large white animal limps out, almost blending in with the colorless snow. It takes Jeremy's thudding heart a moment to calm down when he realizes the beast is merely a dog, not something more ferocious. Fred Wilson emerges from the shed, brandishing a shovel and charging after the dog.  
  
“Get back here, fleabag!” he snarls.  
  
Jeremy considers the possibility this dog is rabid, that Fred Wilson is simply protecting himself from a dangerous feral creature. But the dog is retreating, showing no signs of aggression, and there are no traces of foam around its mouth. Dispatching a rabid animal would be easier with a shotgun, an item most people in a hunting town like Harvest would own. Instead, he's using a shovel.  
  
Assessment: Fred Wilson is an asshole.  
  
Wilson raises the shovel, and Jeremy closes the distance between them with breakneck speed. He crashes into Wilson, and the two go tumbling to the frozen ground. The shovel clangs. Wilson is slow to react, so Jeremy slugs him in the jaw for good measure. So much for erring on the side of the law.  
  
“Pick on someone your own size, dickhead!” Jeremy never thought he'd be spouting such a clichéd one-liner outside of the schoolyard, but alas. “What kind of man goes around tormenting innnocent animals?”  
  
“Serial killers.” Casey moves in and slips his hands underneath Jeremy's arms. Effortlessly, he pulls Jeremy off of Wilson, who lies on the ground for a moment, dazed. “Is that what you need the shovel for? Burying all those bodies?”  
  
Wilson spits something slimy and red onto the ground. “Who the fuck are you?”  
  
Jeremy's acutely aware of the dog cowering behind his legs. He reaches back, finds the animal’s head, and gives it a reassuring pet. “Jeremy Stone. This is my lawyer, Casey Hanley.”  
  
“As the sole witness to this event,” Casey tells him, “I'll swear under oath it was self defense.”  
  
“We're here about Isaac Lehrke. You remember him?” Jeremy says. “His remains were discovered in the woods off 73.”  
  
Wilson gives him a look nasty enough to curdle milk. “Get the fuck off my property. You ain't cops, so I ain't gotta talk.”  
  
“But Isaac talked, didn't he? Maybe he told your wife you'd been stepping out on her. Where is she, by the way?” Jeremy makes a production out of looking around. He fakes a gasp. “Oh...”  
  
Wilson grabs the shovel and throws it at them. The handle thumps uselessly against Jeremy's shins. “I didn't touch him. But that little shit got what he deserved,” Wilson growls, attempting to push himself up on his elbows. He looks to be about fifty, so that's probably a harder task than it seems. “Always stickin' his nose in other folks' business. I got no sympathy for him or that retard brother of his.”  
  
Without thinking, Jeremy grasps the shovel. A haze of red explodes in his vision. He swings, the weighty metal spade hurtling towards Wilson's skull. In an instant Jeremy is yanked backwards, like a dog lunging against a lead. The shovel drops out of his hands, missing its mark by inches and sapped of the momentum necessary for a devastating blow.  
  
“C'mon, man,” Casey murmurs, releasing his hold on the back of Jeremy’s coat. “Don’t be stupid. You already slugged him once. Let that be enough.”  
  
Jeremy focuses on his breathing, trying to bury the anger, keep it stowed inside where it can do the least harm. Coming back to himself feels like the aftermath of an out-of-body experience, as though he's fitting back into his own skin. “Fine, we’ll leave. But we're taking the dog.”  
  
Wilson scoffs and manages to get to his feet, brushing dead grass and chunks of snow off his hefty jacket. “He's just a wild mutt anyway.”  
  


* * *

While Casey stays at the house with the dog, Jeremy takes the Oldsmobile into town to load up on food that isn’t beans or oatmeal. He can't explain why, but he needs to put some distance between himself and Eddie’s house. Something about the drive to Fred Wilson's place realigned Jeremy's atoms, and inside the Lehrke house he can feel them shrinking and shifting in unusual ways. Maybe it's the lingering smell of decay, the unnatural cleanliness of the whole place, the eerie darkness, the whispered chill against his skin that first night, or all of those elements combined into an unnerving whole, but Jeremy doesn't like being there.  
  
The grocery store is located in the heart of Harvest, surrounded by two small specialty shops and the local tavern. The store seems smaller than Jeremy remembers from the hazy recollections of his youth, but he hadn’t been six feet tall then.  
  
He loads up a small grocery cart with items that won’t spoil, since Eddie lacks a refrigerator. It’s in the beer aisle—of course—that Jeremy feels a prickle over his skin, like there are eyes on him.  
  
There's a brunette woman standing next to him, perusing the alcohol shelves herself. She is plump and matronly, and almost reminds Jeremy of his grandmother, if not for her middle-aged features. From Jeremy's peripheral vision she seems to be studying him, as if she's trying to figure out where she's seen him before.  
  
She speaks when she finally recognizes him. “Jeremy Stone? I haven't seen you since you were a teenager! Are you back in town after what happened to Eddie?”  
  
Jeremy isn't sure what to say. In a vague place in the back of his mind, he recognizes this woman—or at least, acknowledges that she recognizes him—but he can't remember how. “I... Yeah, seems like I am.” He opens the door to the giant beer fridge and pulls out the six-pack he'll need to survive the next few days.  
  
“Where are my manners? You probably don't remember me. Pamela Sharkey. I run the tavern just next door. My son Jason went to your school.” She extends a hand, and they shake.   
  
The name completes a circuit in Jeremy’s brain, and he remembers her now. She had been one of Mom’s friends, in the way that everyone in a small town is friends. Mom and Pamela might chat each other up if they happened to sit next to each other at the hairdresser’s, but Mom didn’t have much reason to spend time at the tavern, so they weren’t particularly close.  
  
Jason, on the other hand, Jeremy barely remembers. Jeremy wasn’t exactly a popular kid back in school; his only friends were Eddie, Mike, and Mike’s sister Laurie. Jason had been more of an athletic type, which meant he and Jeremy’s small social circle were never to intersect.  
  
But Jeremy decides to pretend like he’s interested. “Oh yeah? How's he doing?”  
  
“He moved to L.A. to work in the movies,” Pamela says with a tinge of melancholy. “He’s a stuntman.”  
  
“Cool,” Jeremy says, at a loss for anything more.  
  
“And where did you go off to?”  
  
“Chicago.”  
  
“Do you miss the small-town charm of Harvest?”  
  
Jeremy gives a half-shrug. “It has its moments.”  
  
Pamela grabs a few six-packs out of the fridge as well, presumably stocking up for the bar. Or maybe she's planning a party. “How's Eddie doing? Is he alright?”  
  
“He's doing about as well as you'd expect.”  
  
A heartbroken expression comes over Pamela's face. She seems relatively unfazed by the whole graverobbing thing—or maybe that little fact hasn’t left the walls of the police department. “Poor dear. It can't be easy, living all by yourself like that. 'Specially on account of how attached he was to his mother.”  
  
Jeremy nods in agreement.  
  
“And then that whole nonsense with Isaac! Lord have mercy.” Pamela shakes her head. Then, as though recalling something: “I'd really love to stay and chat, but I have a shift coming up. Do you think Eddie would mind if I stopped by tomorrow and brought over a casserole? Something tells me that poor boy hasn't had a home-cooked meal in a long while.”  
  
“He'd really appreciate that. Thanks, Mrs. Sharkey.”  
  
“Oh, just call me Pamela. We're practically neighbors!”


	6. Chapter 6

That night, Eddie is released from police custody. Jeremy and Casey accompany Chief Parks to the basement containing the holding cell. Detective Zebrowski follows them, brandishing a shotgun as Chief Parks jangles the keys and unlocks the cell.  
  
“Is the gun really necessary?” Jeremy wonders with a sneer.   
  
Chief Parks ignores him. “Looks like we have to let you go for now,” he says to Eddie, and Jeremy doesn’t like the ‘for now’ part of that sentence. “But we’ll be watching, so don’t leave town.”  
  
Jeremy snorts a laugh. “Seriously? That old line?”  
  
Zebrowski glares at Jeremy. “You think this is funny? You’re a pretty suspicious motherfucker yourself. Don’t think we forgot how you left town shortly after Isaac’s murder.”  
  
“ _Shortly_? It was months later,” Casey interjects, like he’s offended on Jeremy’s behalf. “You want a suspect? Try Fred Wilson. Apparently those two had some sort of dispute going around the time Isaac disappeared.”  
  
Chief Parks turns to glower at Casey. “Mr. Hanley, I won’t have you coming into our town and casting aspersions on the fine folk who live here. Fred Wilson’s good people.”  
  
“Yeah, and what if he’s not?” Casey pushes. “What if he killed Isaac and you’re not looking into it just ‘cause you’re buddies with the guy?”  
  
“That’s a pretty gross simplification, Counselor. Regardless, you don’t tell me how to do my job, and I won’t tell you how to do yours.” Chief Parks opens the door to the cell.  
  
Eddie steps out of the cage and heads straight for Jeremy, but Zebrowski nudges him towards the stairs, diverting his path. “None of you chucklefucks leave Harvest until this shit gets sorted out,” Zebrowski says.  
  
Casey laughs. “I don’t think so. We’ll come and go as we please. You guys know how to find us.”  
  


* * *

It’s bitterly cold outside of the police station, the night dark and foreboding. Casey, Jeremy, and Eddie squeeze into the Oldsmobile and head for the farm.  
  
From the passenger seat, Eddie says, “Thanks for comin’ to get me.” He sticks his hands in front of the heating vents to warm them. “I hope I’m not too much of a burden.”  
  
“Never. I'm just glad to see you again.”   
  
Jeremy hopes Eddie doesn't shoot back with, “Then why didn't you visit sooner, dickhead?” but he knows the little guy doesn't have that kind of bitterness in him. And definitely not that kind of language.  
  
Eddie smiles sweetly. “Yeah. I missed you.”  
  
Jeremy’s never so much as sent Eddie a birthday card, so dow did Eddie find him? He asks Eddie as much.  
  
“Well, I s’pose I just got lucky. I found your name in the phone book. You said you were goin’ to Chicago, so that’s where I started looking. And if I couldn’t find you that way, I’d look up your folks and ask them how to get in touch with you.”  
  
Jeremy hadn’t thought Eddie could be so resourceful, and he feels a pang of guilt for underestimating him. Though that doesn’t explain why Eddie waited until now to get in touch with him.  
  
“Did you ever…”—Jeremy starts, dancing around the question before deciding to plunge right in—”try to contact me before? Like maybe after your mother…” His voice tapers off.  
  
“I did, but I couldn’t find you. Seems you weren’t in Chicago at the time. Guess I was lookin’ in the wrong place. I wasn’t in my right mind after Ma passed.”  
  
 _Understatement of the century._  
  
But beyond the snide thought, Jeremy realizes Eddie couldn’t find him because he had been living with a roommate at the time—a roommate who was paying the phone bill. So when Eddie called directory assistance and asked for a Jeremy Stone in Chicago, Illinois, the operator would have come up empty. Tough break for ol’ Ed.  
  
“Enough about me,” says Eddie, his voice now bubbling with curiosity and eagerness to catch up on all he's missed. “How’s life in the city?”  
  
“It's... Different,” Jeremy says. “Crowded.”  
  
“Noisy,” Casey adds from the backseat. “But the food is out of this fucking world. Y'know your boy Jeremy's a chef now?”  
  
Eddie's smile inflates to a prideful grin. “Ain't much of a surprise. He used to bring me leftovers when we were kids,” he tells Casey.  “He'd save a little bit of everything from last night's dinner—pork chops, macaroni, mashed potatoes—and have me try it the next day, on account of Ma not being much of a cook when lunch was concerned.”  
  
Sifting through years of buried recollections, Jeremy surfaces with a memory. “You had dinner with me and my parents one night, remember? We were thirteen. I think we'd only known each other a couple weeks then.”  
  
“Your folks were real sweet,” Eddie says with a wistful edge. “I remember wishing they were mine. But Ma sure gave me hell for it when I came home that night.”   
  
Jeremy remembers how Eddie had carefully dodged any further invitations for dinner at the Stone household. He shudders to think what Mary must have said (or done) to keep Eddie in line.  
  
“Your Ma sounds like a real classy lady,” Casey says with no sincerity.  
  
“How'd you two meet?” Eddie asks him. This sudden tonal shift in conversation has always been a characteristic of Eddie's. Jeremy still hasn't figured out if it's part of an intuitive reading of a situation, perhaps steering clear of touchy subjects, or if Eddie just doesn't understand the concept of segues.   
  
“Um... a bar,” Jeremy says. Should he mention that he and Casey have a no-strings-attached arrangement? Would Eddie be upset? Jealous? Would it come off as a dick move to rub his new 'relationship' in the face of his sort-of ex?  
  
"It was karaoke night. I moonlight as an Elvis impersonator," Casey tells Eddie with a disturbing amount of normalcy.  
  
Jeremy briefly wonders if Eddie even knows who Elvis Presley is, but recognition flickers across Eddie's face. "Oh! That sounds fun!" He looks at Jeremy. "Is he any good?"  
  
“Yeah, actually,” Jeremy says. “It's weird as fuck.”  
  
“Why Elvis?” Eddie asks. “I mean, I guess you look like him a little, but…” He seems to be sidestepping any acknowledgement of Casey’s size.  
  
“I just like his music. ”Casey settles into his seat, shrugs his shoulders. “But his records got me through some hard times. I guess I’m paying it forward.”  
  
Eddie nods like he knows exactly what Casey means.  
  
When they reach the house, the dog bounds up to Eddie as soon as the front door shuts behind them. The animal stands on its hind legs, its front paws stretching up the length of Eddie’s torso. Eddie laughs a surprised sound and scratches the dog behind the ears. The dog whimpers but seems appreciative of the affection, its mouth stretched in a wide grin.  
  
“Oh yeah, I guess you have a dog now,” Jeremy says. “Hope you’re not allergic. We rescued him from suspect numero uno Fred Wilson, who's a real piece of work, by the way.”  
  
Eddie's sad eyes have gone ecstatic at the sight of the fluffy white animal. As Eddie pets him, the dog's tail picks up speed, swishing against the hardwood floor. “You're safe here, little fella,” Eddie tells him, and the dog seems to understand, but there's still some apprehension in the pooch's eyes. “We won't let anybody hurt you.”  
  
“According to Wilson, the dog's a stray, so he might take a while to come around.” Considering the last environment this dog encountered wasn't too friendly, it makes sense he'd be nervous here.  
  
“I'm a pretty patient guy,” Eddie says, fingers combing through the dog's thick fur.   
  
They settle in for supper around the table. Jeremy’s eager to show off his culinary skills for Eddie, but cooking their meal serves a larger purpose: the delicious aromas of food will overpower the lingering stench of decay inside the house.  
  
The dog munches on kibble, while the rest of them eat chicken piccata, sweet corn casserole, and Jeremy’s special baked beans (special due to the bacon slices, barbecue sauce, and brown sugar, among other ingredients). Casey, of course, shovels food into his mouth like he’s eating his last meal, but even Eddie eats with fervor.  
  
“I guess they didn’t feed you very well in jail,” says Jeremy.  
  
Eddie swallows an oversized bite of beans. “I didn’t ask for anything. No sense in troubling anyone on my account. But the big fella ate a slice of apple pie with cheese right in front of me.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?” Casey grunts. “Cheese on apple pie sounds disgusting.”   
  
“It’s a Wisconsin thing,” Jeremy says. “And you have no right talking about disgusting food after you ate that monstrosity of a burger.”  
  
Casey brays a laugh.  
  
“Last week, he made a double-stacked hamburger with three bacon-filled grilled cheese sandwiches instead of buns,” Jeremy tells Eddie. “Watching someone eat that was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen Cannibal Holocaust.”  
  
Eddie laughs with genuine mirth, and it’s the first time Jeremy has seen him laugh in eight years. He’s missed Eddie, and now that Jeremy has him again, he never wants to let go.  
  
Their conversation stays casual throughout dinner. Casey brags about his connections with Illinois political figures, and about some of his more high-profile cases. Jeremy tells Eddie about The Exorcist, Star Wars, Jaws, and other blockbusters he might have missed. Eddie listens, enthralled.  
  
After dinner, Casey heads upstairs for a shower while Jeremy and Eddie linger at the table. Amidst the lantern light, Eddie sips a tepid Dr. Pepper. Jeremy drinks a lukewarm Miller Lite, his second of the evening.   
  
To Eddie's credit, he doesn't seem uncomfortable or bitter about the prolonged silence. Sitting together in this dimly lit kitchen, it almost feels as though they're on an intimate date at a restaurant. For Jeremy, outright hate would be easier to bear than the shy glances Eddie keeps giving him. “It's really great to see you again," Eddie says with a small smile.  
  
"Yeah, you too." Jeremy used to know everything there was to know about Eddie Lehrke. He knew Eddie liked pulp magazines and comic books, that he'd do just about anything for a slice of apple pie or a milkshake, that he refused alcohol due to his father's drinking problem, that he may have been odd but never meant any harm. But this new Eddie is a mystery, almost a stranger.   
  
Asking how Eddie's been seems somewhat in bad taste, or at least resulting in an obvious answer. So Jeremy tries another insensitive avenue. "When did you bring your mother home?”  
  
Eddie's smile melts, just as Jeremy knew it would.  "Ah, about two days after the funeral, maybe."   
  
Christ. Only a couple days of solitude and Eddie just… broke.  
  
How lonely must Eddie have been to dig up his dead mother and keep her in the house? Did he hold conversations with her, pretend she was still alive and well, or did he simply enjoy the comfort of another body despite its soul being long gone?  
  
A selfish thought digs its way out of the recesses of Jeremy’s brain. If Eddie had managed to get in contact with Jeremy, would he have bothered digging up dear old Ma? Maybe all he wanted was someone familiar and comforting, and when Eddie couldn’t reach Jeremy, he went to the only other person he felt cared about him.  
  
"I should've come back," Jeremy murmurs. "I'm so sorry."  
  
Eddie chews his lower lip, a gesture that Jeremy knows very well. “Why didn’t you? I s’pose maybe you were busy, but even a letter would have made me happy. Probably wouldn’t have been too much trouble…” He says this and appears to immediately regret it, wincing like he’s braced for a slap.  
  
“I didn’t want to risk your Mom seeing a letter from me. Somehow I don’t think she mellowed out with age.”  
  
Eddie gives a nod of consideration and, perhaps, agreement.  
  
Jeremy breathes out a sigh. “But you’re right. I was a jerk. I should’ve found a way to reach out to you. But I guess… I wasn’t ready. I wanted to be a success when I came back so you wouldn’t have to struggle. You could just fit right into my life without worrying about money or anything like that, ‘cause I’d be able to support you. But by then too much time had passed, and I was afraid to find out if you’d moved on or forgotten about me.” It sounds believable, and some parts are true to an extent. But Eddie doesn’t have any reason to think Jeremy’s lying.  
  
“I never forgot you,” Eddie says in a near-whisper.  
  
“I know that now.”  
  
“How have things been for you?"  
  
"I, um... I don't really know where to start."  
  
"After you left?"  
  
"I moved to Chicago, had a few odd jobs for a while, and now I'm a chef.”  
  
"That's all well and good, I suppose, but it doesn't say much about you."  
  
"What do you want to know?" says Jeremy.  
  
"Who are you now?” says Eddie. “Eight years is a long time, y'know? People change."  
  
"Have you?"  
  
Eddie shakes his head. "Ma always said I was real simple."  
  
"Can we both agree she wasn't the best judge of character?"  
  
Eddie frowns a little, but Jeremy has always been the sole person who could criticize Mary Lehrke with impunity. While Eddie would nervously reprimand anyone else who spoke ill of his mother, he seemed to listen to Jeremy’s criticisms, or at least allow them to be voiced.  
  
"I don't know if I've changed," Jeremy says to answer Eddie's original question. "The important parts haven't."  
  
A familiar goofy smile spreads on Eddie's mouth. "Well, that's good news." He glances away, too shy for eye contact. Eddie's easily-chagrined personality was one of the things that endeared Jeremy to him. “'Cause I liked you a lot back then.”  
  
Jeremy can't help but return the smile. “I know.” A memory rises to the surface: their mouths joined, hands roaming over hot skin, Eddie’s soft little gasps between kisses.  
  
“It'll probably take some time to get to know each other again, but I want to. If that's what you want, of course.” Eddie reaches out and touches Jeremy's hand, as though hoping to rekindle something through physical contact.  
  
A breath catches in Jeremy's chest. He tries to imagine a life with Eddie now, free from Mary's iron fist. Could they be happy together, or has Eddie descended too far into madness to be saved?   
  
“I'd like that,” Jeremy manages to say. He doesn't draw his hand away, and neither does Eddie.  
  
“Does that mean you're staying?”  
  
Jeremy hadn't really thought about how long he'd be in Harvest, but he’s reluctant to give a definite answer. “Something tells me I ought to stick around and figure out this whole Isaac thing.”  
  
“Can you do that?” Eddie wonders. “Won’t your job miss you?”  
  
“Don’t worry about that. I’ve got it covered.” Before leaving for Harvest, Jeremy cashed in some stored-up sick days. Although Thanksgiving is fast approaching, almost all of his coworkers are eager for holiday pay. He won’t be missed.  
  
“So, be honest with me: do you have any idea who might have killed your brother?”  
  
Eddie makes a pained, guilty expression.  
  
“Besides you.”  
  
“No,” Eddie says, his voice trembling. “It had to be me. Why would Ma say so if it wasn't my fault?”  
  
 _Because she was a garbage fire of a person_ , Jeremy wants to tell him, but that seems a little harsh at the moment. Even though Mary is dead, Jeremy doesn't doubt for a moment she has a reach beyond the grave.   
  
“Look, me and Casey are gonna prove you didn't do this,” Jeremy says instead. “And if the cops try to give you any trouble, Casey'll make 'em wish they hadn't. He can be pretty intimidating when he wants to be.”  
  
A twitch of a smile tugs at Eddie's lips. “I trust you.”  
  


* * *

 _November 1972_  
  
Hunting season had just begun in Harvest, and Jeremy was already making plans for the future. He would be eighteen soon, and he ached for a world beyond their tiny town. Today, he walked Eddie home, the way he did every weekday, since Mary didn't allow Eddie or Isaac to socialize after school. It was a bit of a trek—a couple miles, really—but Jeremy felt spending time with his best friend was worth the effort.  
  
Eddie chattered endlessly about the upcoming break, planning opportunities for them to see each other—a formidable difficulty when school was not in session, given Mary's vise-like hold on her boys.  
  
Jeremy tried to smile, but it was weak around the edges, frayed by the knowledge of his own plans. “Ed, I'm not—I'm not sticking around.”  
  
Eddie stopped walking, as though the words froze him in place. A cold gust rustled his clothing. “What?”  
  
“This place sucks, dude. I have to get out of here. The world is so much bigger than Harvest or La Crosse or Cedar Pass, or even all of them combined. Have you ever been to Milwaukee? They have actual sports teams!”  
  
Eddie shrugged. Sports never meant too much to him; Isaac had been the athletic one in the family.  
  
“And they have real restaurants with cooks who don't look like somebody's dad in a bathrobe smoking a cigarette while they burn your hash browns. When I turn eighteen, I'm going to Chicago, and I want you to come with me.”  
  
Fat, glycerin tears shimmered in Eddie’s blue eyes. “I—I can't...”  
  
“Why not?”   
  
“Ma needs me,” Eddie stammered. “Ever since Pa died... Well, he wasn't much of a help 'round the farm anyway, and now that Isaac's run off, what kind of son would I be if I left her alone?”  
  
“Don't you want a chance at a better life? If you stay here, this is all you're ever gonna have.”  
  
Eddie shrugged. “What's wrong with that?”  
  
Jeremy stood there dumbfounded in the middle of the field they were crossing. He couldn't conceive that someone in Eddie's circumstances would be content with them, that Eddie could turn a blind eye to the abuse his mother inflicted on him. He probably didn't even see it as abuse, because it was all he'd ever known.   
  
“Your mom will never let us be together if we stay here,” Jeremy said, trying to appeal to any kind of desire Eddie might have for him. “If we go to Chicago, we might have a chance. And nobody will call you names or make fun of your eye 'cause there'll be too many people to even bother with you.”  
  
“Ma wouldn't—Ma wouldn't visit me,” Eddie murmured with a quiver in his voice. “If we moved far away, she couldn't make the trip. You know she's not much good at driving.”  
  
“We could visit her,” Jeremy suggested, though he hated the idea.  
  
“She wouldn't approve of two men who aren't family living together.”  
  
“Goddamn it,” Jeremy groused, raking his hands through his hair. He couldn't figure out how to show Eddie the miserable life he was signing up for by staying in Harvest.   
  
But it was the excuses Jeremy hated most of all, and here Eddie was, rattling off another one:  
  
“And she sure wouldn't approve of that foul mouth of yours.”  
  
The dam burst. Anger exploded out of Jeremy, brash and unstoppable. “Your ma's a sanctimonious pain in the ass! Why do you think your dad drank himself to death? The same reason Isaac left: to get away from her! If you stay here, you're gonna turn out just like her, and the last fucking thing the world needs is another self-righteous bitch like Mary Lehrke!”  
  
Eddie's eyes flooded with tears. He sniffled and sobbed, turning away from Jeremy and wiping his wet face with his frayed collar. The anger ebbed from Jeremy’s bones almost as quickly as it had appeared. He could never stay mad at Eddie for too long, and seeing how his words had hurt Eddie made Jeremy regret them.  
  
Jeremy took a step toward him. “Ed, I'm sorry.” How could he scorn Mary for her behavior towards Eddie when Jeremy himself took a page from her book? Why did he think righteous anger would extinguish the very fire it had caused?  
  
Eddie turned to face him, wiping at the snot running from his reddened nose with the back of his hand. “Why do you have to say cruel things like that?” he blubbered. “She never hurt nobody.”  
  
“I'm sorry,” Jeremy said again. He put his arms around Eddie, and Eddie collapsed into Jeremy as though his bones came loose from their riggings. They stayed like that for a while, and as Eddie sobbed, Jeremy understood it was time to get the hell out of Harvest.


	7. Chapter 7

_November 1980_  
  
That night, after Eddie and Casey have retired to their beds, Jeremy slips out the bedroom door. The house is almost pitch black, save for the slivers of moonlight filtering in from the windows and the spots where the curtains haven't been shut all the way. His footsteps make the aged floorboards groan under his weight, and he shivers at the sound.  
  
Mary's bedroom is at the end of the hallway, a sealed-off sanctuary for a misbegotten saint. The seal isn't one of fancy locks or crime scene tape, but rather integrity, an unspoken understanding not to breach this special place. But Jeremy's curious and kind of an asshole, so he turns the knob as quietly as he can.  
  
The bedroom has been perfectly preserved, most likely untouched since the day Mary died. It feels as though Jeremy's stepped into a time capsule to the 1930s. Victorian furniture abounds. The thin lace curtains allow moonlight to fill the room. A patterned rug lies on the floor. Two chrome wall sconces sit perched above the bed, along with a silver crucifix. There are vintage framed photographs of people Jeremy doesn't know, maybe Mary's relatives. Artwork of Jesus occupies the remaining wall space. A night table draped with lace-trimmed cloths displays more photos, a lamp, an aged Bible, and a golden trinket box.  
  
As Jeremy moves through the room, he kicks up dust, making his nose itch. He sniffles, struggles not to sneeze. A loud noise in this quiet house would wake Casey, Eddie, and especially the dog.  
  
Jeremy picks up the Bible, and a cloud of dust plumes upward. He muffles a sneeze into the crook of his arm. There are multiple bookmarks and small photographs stuck inside the Bible, marking passages Mary must have thought were important. Randomly, he opens to one:  
  
 _God saw that the wickedness of man was great on the earth, and that every imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually. And it repented the Lord that He had made man on the earth, and it grieved Him at His heart. And the Lord said, “I will destroy man, whom I have created from the face of the earth. Both man and beast, and the creeping thing, and the fowls of the air; for it repenteth me that I have made them.”_  
  
Is that how Mary felt about Eddie?   
  
Or Isaac?  
  
Hold the phone.  
  
Could Mary have killed her own son? She certainly wasn’t mother of the year, seeming to treat her sons like burdens thrust upon her by God. She put all her suffering and pain and anger onto her boys, and while Eddie was meek and eager to please, Isaac was more headstrong.  
  
Hadn't Eddie said Isaac was starting to defy their mother? How far would Mary go to assert control?  
  
 _Wait_ , Jeremy tells himself before his mind seizes completely on the idea. According to Eddie, Isaac stormed off and never came home. How could Mary have killed him if he didn’t come back?  
  
Unless Eddie is hiding something to protect her.  
  
All his life, Eddie has never spoken an unkind word against his mother despite the horrid way she treated him. She told him he was responsible for Isaac's death, and Eddie still holds that belief to this day. Would it really be so unbelievable that he might be willing to take the fall for her crime?   
  
An arctic chill fills Jeremy's belly and shakes him enough that his teeth chatter. Time to crawl back into the warm bed and forget about this nonsense. At least for tonight. Tomorrow, he can raise the subject with Mike Parks and see where it goes.  
  
Jeremy returns the Bible to its place on the night table. The lamp flickers on and off, startling him enough that he stumbles backwards. The bulb bursts, and in the split-second of light filling the room, he swears he sees something move.  
  
Cold sweat paves the way for goosebumps, and Jeremy stands frozen in the bedroom. In the silent darkness, all he can hear is his own heartbeat jackhammering behind his ribs and pulsing in his ears.  
  
Jeremy flees the room, passing through a cold spot on his way out.  
  


* * *

Jeremy doesn't sleep until exhaustion takes over. With the morning comes a vague sense of unreality and a fervent hope that last night's events were all a dream. Casey lies beside him, snoring softly into the pillow. How can anyone sleep in a house with ghosts?  
  
Jeremy nudges Casey in the back of the legs with his foot. “Wake up.”  
  
Casey grumbles. “What?”  
  
“I saw something last night.”  
  
“What kind of something?”   
  
“I don't know. A fuckin' ghost.”  
  
Casey sits up slowly and rubs his eyes. Apparently the mention of extradimensional beings requires his full attention. “You saw a ghost?”  
  
“I think that’s what it was. I just saw a blur out of the corner of my eye. But I snuck into Mary's room, and while I was looking around—”  
  
“Why’d you go in there?” Casey says, exasperated. “Eddie shut that room off, man. Have some respect.”  
  
“I couldn't help it! I was curious. And, hey, there's a ghost haunting the house and you're hung up on a dead woman's privacy?” Jeremy struggles to keep his voice down, unaccustomed to the deafening quiet here. He doesn’t want to wake Eddie with his ravings about a ghost.   
  
“Maybe it was just a shadow or a trick of the imagination. You were drinking last night—”  
  
Jeremy groans. Not this shit again.  
  
Casey holds his hands up as though warding off an argument. “I'm just saying.”  
  
“Trust me, I was stone-cold sober. And I saw a ghost.”  
  
Casey wrinkles his nose in that way of his when he's incredulous. “You saw  _something_.”  
  
Semantics. One of the downsides of arguing with a lawyer. Jeremy rolls his eyes. “I'm not imagining this. The goddamn light bulb exploded!”  
  
That perks Casey's interest. His brow furrows in confusion.  
  
Jeremy explains, “The lamp on her night table turned on by itself and then exploded. I thought this place didn't have electricity!”  
  
“Is it possible there's a reasonable explanation for this that doesn't involve ghosts?”  
  
“Fine, be a skeptic.” Jeremy huffs and slides out of the bed. Cold bites at his bare skin until he grabs his jeans off the bedpost and steps into them.  
  
“Don't you dare go filling Eddie's head with this ghost thing. He's got enough crazy in there already.”  
  
Jeremy opens his mouth to defend Eddie, but what would he say? Instead, he shakes off the comment. “I'm not taking it to Eddie.” He grabs Casey’s keys off the night table. He needs the car. “I'm going to someone who will believe me.”  
  


* * *

The Harvest diner looks just about the same as the last time Jeremy was here almost a decade ago. The linoleum counters are still that ugly marble color, the vinyl seats still candy-apple red. Chrome shines almost vividly enough to warrant sunglasses in order to look directly at the furniture.  
  
Jeremy finds Mike Parks seated at a booth near the window, hunched over a plate of pancakes and a cup of coffee. He waves Jeremy over, and as Jeremy slides into the booth opposite him, Mike looks positively thrilled to see him.  
  
“What's this special case you told me about?” Mike asks.  
  
“Hold on a second,” says Jeremy. “Is anyone looking into Fred Wilson’s whereabouts the day Isaac went missing? Word is they had a dispute.”  
  
“Haven’t heard anything about that.”  
  
“Probably because your dad won’t even consider him a suspect.”  
  
Mike frowns. “Dad can be… a little bull-headed sometimes. If you think Wilson’s a good lead, I’ll try to head down there myself and have a word with him.”  
  
“He might be a tad hostile. Just a fair warning.”  
  
“Nothing I can’t handle.”  
  
Jeremy nods. “You said something about Isaac’s autopsy?” Mike mentioned this when Jeremy set up their meeting on a pay-phone in town.  
  
Mike drizzles more syrup on his pancakes. “According to the crime lab, the bones were broken apart post-mortem, most likely with a heavy blunt object, due to the lack of striae you'd see with a sharp or serrated edge. The bevelling that occurs when a bullet strikes bone isn't present, so they ruled out gunshot wounds. Based on the color of the bones, Isaac wasn't burned to death or burned post-mortem. The skull had an indentation you might see from a hammer or another blunt object. The hyoid bone was broken in a way that indicates strangulation. Some of the bones had rodent teeth marks, which means they were buried in shallow soil first.”  
  
“How do you figure?”  
  
“Because we found them buried deep, or at least deeper than a rat or mouse would be able to dig to chew on them in the first place. So the killer kept the body somewhere else before the final burial ground. But what's really puzzling is the rate of decomposition. Soil acidity plays a huge role in decomposition and bone preservation, but Harvest's soil isn't that acidic. And—”  
  
The waitress stops by their table to take Jeremy’s order, and he exchanges pleasantries with her: how the town's changed since he used to live here, anticipation of the upcoming holidays, and polite acknowledgement of Eddie's predicament. He orders bacon and eggs and a coffee. She writes it down on a small notepad and saunters off.  
  
Jeremy looks at Mike. “You were saying something about soil?”  
  
“Right. So when a body decomposes, chemical reactions in the body release a whole bunch of compounds. Adipocere is the product of one of those chemical reactions. It forms in mild alkaline or neutral soil, and allows for slower decomposition. It doesn't usually show up until three months after death, and it becomes more prominent as time goes on. Bodies have been exhumed after a hundred years with traces of adipocere.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“So Isaac's bones?” Mike pauses for dramatic effect. “Zero adipocere.”  
  
Jeremy tries to absorb that one.  
  
The waitress drops off Jeremy's coffee. He thanks her, takes a sip. Bland. He opens one of the little creamer cups and pours it into the mug.   
  
“Which means the body didn't decompose,” Mike says.  
  
“How is that possible?”  
  
“It isn't.” Mike's eyes tend to light up when he talks about macabre facts or grisly details. This is one of those times. “The killer buried only Isaac's bones.” He takes a bite of syrup-soggy pancakes. “As you can imagine, Zebrowski's having a field day with this.”  
  
“I can't, actually. He’s new here, remember?”  
  
“Right, yeah. Well, he shares my morbid fascinations. His working theory is a Satanic ritual, but I’m thinking cannibalism.”  
  
Jeremy doesn't know what to make of that. The idea of a flesh-eating human living in the small farm town of Harvest is ridiculous, though not impossible. “Well, since we're on the topic of weird shit...”  
  
Mike grins, leaning forward. “Do tell.”  
  
“I think Eddie's house is haunted.”  
  
Mike gasps a tiny sound of glee. “Did you see a ghost?”  
  
“I think so. It was just a blur, but the freakiest thing is how the lamp turned on and then exploded, despite the house not having electricity.”  
  
“Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Have you experienced anything else out of sorts? A feeling you're not alone, a drop in temperature, a cold spot in the room—”  
  
“There's no indoor heating, so it's always fucking cold, but sometimes I feel  _too_  cold, y'know? But Casey and Eddie haven’t said anything, so maybe I'm just crazy.”  
  
Jeremy's food arrives, and he digs in with gusto.   
  
“Do you hear any knocking or strange noises?” Mike asks.  
  
“No, not really.”  
  
Mike opens his mouth to suggest something, but stops.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothing. I just remembered Eddie doesn't have any pets.”  
  
“We have a dog now,” Jeremy says with a shrug.  
  
Mike doesn't appear to be concerned with how that happened. “Does the dog seem out of sorts?”  
  
“I guess, but maybe he's just uncomfortable in a strange house.” Jeremy frowns at his own skepticism. Does he really believe Casey's incredulity after what he’s witnessed? “And you’ve been in there. It’s creepy as fuck.”  
  
“Any strange smells?”  
  
Jeremy gives him a look.  
  
“Never mind.” Mike chews it over. “Well, there are different types of hauntings, and without a whole lot of anecdotal evidence I can't say anything for certain.”  
  
“Anecdotal evidence? Isn't that an oxymoron?”  
  
Mike huffs a chuckle. “Anyway, I'm torn between categorizing this as a residual haunting or an intelligent haunting, 'cause it seems like it could go either way.”  
  
“What's the difference?”  
  
“An intelligent haunting is basically dealing with a presence that can communicate with you and interact in an intelligent way,” says Mike, diving into an explanation he has no doubt memorized.   
  
Jeremy always knew being friends with the nerdy kid in high school would pay off in the end.  
  
“The spirits involved in intelligent hauntings are usually people who are trapped between worlds or can freely move between them,” Mike continues. “Ghosts aren't inherently evil or dangerous. They're just people, so if the person was an asshole in real life, you've got yourself an asshole ghost. But what makes it an 'intelligent' haunting is that the spirit is trying to communicate with someone. Since they can’t talk, they make noise, move stuff around, turn lights on and off.”  
  
“And the other?”  
  
“Residual haunting? I guess the best way to explain it is comparing it to an old film loop playing a scene or image over and over through the years. Sometimes a place becomes haunted through an event or series of events that sort of imprint themselves into the atmosphere. Like a Civil War battlefield, or the scene of the Manson family murders. Trauma and high emotions create stronger energies. If you remember your high school physics class, energy doesn’t disappear, but it can change form and 'play' itself at different times. It can be visual, or sounds and noises with no explanation. Like phantom footsteps.”  
  
Jeremy sits back and takes another sip of coffee. “So for this to be a residual haunting, that would mean something happened in the Lehrke house that was so fucked up it caused a disturbance in the Force.”  
  
Mike smiles at the joke. “Yeah, that's the jist of it.”  
  
Which brings Jeremy right back to his earlier theory of Mary being the culprit in Isaac's murder. If she killed her own son in that house, could his spirit be trying to communicate?  
  
“I've been thinking...  
  
“You know I'm all ears.”  
  
Jeremy fills Mike in on his theory. Mike listens, worrying the remnants of a sugar packet between his fingers, the way he used to mindlessly toy with objects while reading in the school library, as though the motion helped him better absorb the information.  
  
“If Eddie saw his mother kill Isaac, it's possible it was so traumatic that he repressed it and created a false memory,” Mike says after a moment of consideration. “And in order to dig it up—”  
  
“You're really going all out on the black humor, huh?”  
  
“—he'd have to consent to hypnotherapy in order to recall that memory. And that would probably do more harm than good. But it's also equally probable Mary could have implanted a false memory in Eddie's brain.”  
  
Jeremy nods. Eddie's almost admitted as much.  
  
“If you're curious, we could use a Ouija board to try to communicate with the spirit,” Mike suggests.  
  
“I don't know if Eddie would be okay with that.” Mary would have had a conniption if Eddie even so much as thought about ‘devil-summoning trash’ like spirit boards.  
  
“That's why you don't tell him.” Mike winks.  
  
Jeremy wants to take issue with that kind of shady secrecy, but hadn't he sneaked into Mary's closed-off bedroom last night? What makes one act less offensive than the other?  
  
“What happens if we get Isaac talking through the Ouija board, and he tells us who killed him? You can't arrest anyone based on that.”  
  
“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. And depending on the identity of the perpetrator, we may not be able to make an arrest.”  
  
Meaning if Mary was indeed the murderer.  
  
“You ever imagine getting a case like this?” Jeremy asks after a moment.  
  
Mike shakes his head, looking solemn. “I took this job because I wanted to help people. But sometimes you can't.”  
  
Jeremy recalls Casey's earlier words:  _some people are just born broken._


	8. Chapter 8

_October 1967_  
  
The first time Eddie met Mike Parks, they were in the school library. Jeremy and Mike sat together at one of the tables, sharing what must have been a particularly interesting book. Eddie was nervous, as he’d never really spoken to Mike before, but if Jeremy liked him he was probably alright.  
  
Eddie approached the table with tentative steps. Unsure what to say to initiate himself into their conversation, he stood there until Jeremy looked up from the book.  
  
“Hey, Eddie.”  
  
“What are you reading?”  
  
Mike lifted up the book and showed him the cover. The book was titled Ghosts, Ghouls and Gallows. “It’s got ghost stories and some other weird stuff,” Mike explained, as though the title wasn’t evocative enough.  
  
“They have that kind of thing here?” Eddie wondered, glancing around the small school library. If books like that existed on the shelves, he’d missed them.  
  
“No way. I brought it from home,” Mike said with a hint of pride. He studied Eddie’s face for a moment, perhaps sizing him up, wondering if this oddball kid with the weird eye was as harmless as he appeared. “You wanna sit with us?”  
  
Accepted into the fold, Eddie joined them at the table. He didn’t know much about Mike, just that he was the son of the town sheriff. But everyone in Harvest knew that. “I didn’t know you liked scary stories,” Eddie said, trying to learn more about him.  
  
“Everybody does,” said Mike. “It’s fun to get scared when it’s not real. And I think it helps you be less scared of the real stuff.”  
  
Eddie didn’t think that was true; his interest in the macabre didn’t make Pa’s drunken violence any less terrifying.  
  
“Do you believe in ghosts?” Eddie asked, truly curious.  
  
But Mike turned the question around on him. “Do you?”  
  
“I don’t think so. The Bible says you either go to heaven or hell when you die.”  
  
“Catholics believe in purgatory,” Jeremy interjected. “Which is sort of inbetween the two. A spirit could get stuck there. Maybe that’s where ghosts come from.”  
  
“And if there isn’t a God,” Mike said, “what happens to spirits if they don’t have anywhere to go?”  
  
Eddie cringed inwardly, imagining the verbal tongue-lashing Ma would have given Mike if she’d heard that ‘no God’ blasphemy. Ma raised Eddie a strict Lutheran, but Eddie was beginning to learn that other perspectives existed. The first time Eddie heard that Jeremy and his family were non-denominational Christians, he feared for his friend’s soul. Ma would certainly have a lot to say about the Stone family’s moral failings, that was certain. But Jeremy was a nice person, and his parents were kind and good. Why would God refuse his own children admittance into heaven simply for not believing in Him the “right” way?   
  
While Eddie had his doubts about Ma’s religious teachings, he knew enough to keep them to himself. But he was expanding his perspectives, his mind molding to the wider realities present around him.  
  
Over the next few months, Mike fit seamlessly into Jeremy and Eddie’s social circle, rounding out their friendship into a merry little threesome. His energetic chatter was the perfect foil to Eddie’s shy, withdrawn demeanor and Jeremy’s laid-back personality. They would meet during lunch and study hall, collectively reading some of the books Mike brought from home: Invaders of Earth, The Body Snatchers, The Feasting Dead, and The Witching Night, among others. Sometimes Mike would even let Eddie borrow issues from his collection of Startling Detective magazine, and Eddie would read them by candlelight in his bedroom after the house had gone to sleep.  
  
“What’s with your brother?” Mike asked one afternoon during lunch, glancing at the faraway table where Isaac sat with some of the more athletically inclined students. “How come he never sits with us?”  
  
Eddie shrugged, munching on some of the macaroni and cheese Jeremy brought for him. “He’s different. He doesn’t like the things we do.”  
  
“He’s kind of weird,” said Mike’s sister, Laurie. “He doesn’t talk all that much.”  
  
“Eddie doesn’t talk much,” Jeremy reminded her, like he didn’t want her giving Eddie the wrong idea about being quiet. Eddie liked that Jeremy was quick to stick up for him.  
  
“’Cause Eddie’s shy,” Laurie explained. “But Isaac seems like he’s quiet ‘cause he wants to be.”  
  
Despite a visit from Ma to the Parks’s house and a stern warning not to let Laurie interact with Eddie, Laurie didn’t care. She seemed to like Eddie, or at least feel sorry for him, and while it was all the same to Eddie, he couldn’t help but feel a bit uncomfortable by her presence here, as though Ma was watching them. And if Laurie had a crush on him, well, that would certainly be a problem, because Eddie was beginning to realize he wasn’t much interested in girls that way. If she tried to kiss him, what would he do?   
  
“Ma said we’re not supposed to be friends,” Eddie told her, a bit sheepish. “You and me.” Ma had said some awfully nasty things about this girl, things Eddie didn’t quite understand. How could a thirteen-year-old girl be as sinful as Ma had claimed? It didn’t make sense. Laurie was nice to Eddie, and he didn’t see much kindness in Harvest, so he tended to take it wherever he could get it.  
  
Laurie rolled her eyes. “Then don’t tell her we’re friends. It’s okay to keep secrets from your parents. Everybody does it.”  
  
“Well, sure, but I feel awful bad about it,” Eddie admitted.  
  
“Parents keep secrets, too. It’s not fair if they get to have secrets but we don’t.”  
  
Eddie considered that. He certainly didn’t like the idea of things being unfair, and he was already harboring a few secrets from Ma already. What was one more?  
  


* * *

 _November 1980_  
  
Pamela Sharkey arrives at Eddie's house after breakfast bearing a casserole and a warm, sympathetic smile. “Eddie,” she says tenderly, hugging him with the arm not occupied with the casserole. She holds him tightly to her full, plump body. Eddie has not been held this way by a woman since Ma was alive; it doesn't help the tears pricking at his eyes that Pamela, a fleshy and handsome woman, reminds him of his mother.   
  
“I hope you don't mind, but I thought you could use a warm meal.” Pamela hands him the casserole dish, which is surprisingly still warm.  
  
“Much appreciated,” says Eddie, thrown a bit off-kilter by her presence here. He hadn't expected to entertain more company than Casey and Jeremy, but he doesn't want to be rude by taking her offering then turning her away. “Why don't you come inside?”  
  
He lets her into the house, and the dog trots up to her, sniffing curiously at this stranger.   
  
“Oh, you have a dog?” says Pamela.  
  
“Just found him yesterday,” Eddie says with a smile. He reaches down and pets the dog's head. “He doesn’t have a name yet, but we’ll think of one real soon.”  
  
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, big boy.” Pamela scratches him behind the ears, and his tail picks up velocity.  
  
“Eddie, hold your horses,” Casey calls from the top of the staircase. “All visitors have to be cleared by me.” He jogs down the stairs and slides into the foyer. Despite his size, Casey is remarkably agile. He greets Pamela at the entrance with a handshake. “Casey Hanley. I'm Eddie's attorney.”  
  
Pamela shakes his proffered hand. “Pamela Sharkey. I own the tavern. I didn't know little Eddie had a lawyer.”  
  
“In light of recent events, he thought it was a good idea to rustle up some legal representation.”  
  
“Well, I'm just here as a friend,” Pamela says, holding up her hands as though to show submission. “So no need to worry about me.”  
  
“I’m sure you’re harmless, but I gotta be cautious. There've been a lot of reporters and journalists hounding him for a statement.”  
  
“It's disgraceful how eager some folks are to take advantage.” Pamela shakes her head.  
  
“I’ll be in the living room,” Casey says. He slips away to give them some privacy. He lies on the couch and busies himself with one of Eddie's many books. The dog follows him.  
  
As Eddie leads her inside the house, Pamela looks around with mild curiosity. Eddie wonders what the house must look like to someone seeing it for the first time. Given Ma’s unpleasant attitude towards the women in town (she had plenty to say about the men, of course, but her scorn seemed aimed mostly at women), she never had many visitors. Or friends. She had once told Eddie he was her only friend in the world.  
  
“My, my, you could be in Good Housekeeping magazine!” Pamela raves.  
  
Eddie smiles a lopsided grin. “I s'pose so. Ma always kept things in apple pie order, so I try to keep them that way too.”  
  
“That's a respectable quality in a man.”  
  
Eddie stores the casserole in the oven, blushing madly as his back is turned to Pamela. Truth be told, he doesn't know Pamela that well. Since his father died of alcohol poisoning, Eddie swore never to touch the stuff, so he never had much reason to go into the tavern. But he's seen her on occasion at the market and the diner. A little while after Ma died, Pamela hired him to build a fence around her backyard to keep the critters out of her garden.  
  
But Eddie's heard whispers about Pamela, about her past, about how her son Jason was born out of wedlock. A lustful harlot, as Ma would say while shaking with righteous anger. But Eddie didn't always agree with Ma's assessments, though he'd never admit it to her face. Some of the women Ma preached against were kind and gentle with Eddie, like Jeremy's mother and Michael Parks's sister Laurie. In fact, it seemed to him that everyone Ma had a problem with were decent, good folk, while the kids who taunted and teased Eddie for his eccentricities never earned her scorn.  
  
“Can I get you a drink?” Eddie offers, turning back to face Pamela. “We got plenty.” He gestures with a thumb to the rows of soda cans lining the kitchen counter.  
  
“That’s very kind of you, but I'm fine. Thanks.” She gives him a gleaming smile. “I ran into your friend Jeremy at the market yesterday. He's grown into quite the handsome fella, don't you think?”  
  
Eddie's insides clench with terror. Does Pamela know about Eddie's attraction to Jeremy? Or is she just teasing him?   
  
Pamela laughs at the panicked expression on Eddie's face. “Oh, don't worry, Eddie, I'm not blind to the strapping thing you've become.” She steps in closer and tweaks his chin.  
  
“I—” The rest of that sentence backs up in Eddie's throat, and he swallows it down, unsure how to finish it even if he could speak. He's hyper-aware of her fingers touching his skin. Is this maternal? Sexual? He is thoroughly inexperienced with female intimacy, and he hears Ma's ranting and raving in his ear on the rare occasions a woman casts him a smile or a wink. It was easier to have this sort of contact with Jeremy; Eddie never had those icky feelings of guilt or shame when Jeremy's touch excited him. Ma never condemned Eddie’s attraction to men, but in all fairness Eddie never brought it up either.  
  
“Do you get lonely in this old house all by yourself?” Pamela asks him. Her thigh presses against him, and Eddie feels a stirring along his leg. His face burns red hot, but his entire body is cold. A shiver runs through him.  
  
“Uh, n—no, I have hobbies.” Eddie turns away, putting some distance between them, trying to give himself a moment to think.   
  
A bare moment later, Pamela makes a gasping, gurgling sound. Something warm and wet lands on the back of Eddie's neck. He whirls around and sees red.  
  
Blood. Everywhere.  
  
Pouring from a grisly gash in Pamela's throat. Dripping onto her thick white roll-neck sweater. Leaking through the cracks of her fingers as she struggles to keep the liquid inside of her body.  
  
She crumples to the kitchen floor like a marionette with its strings cut. A blood-smeared chef's knife clatters beside her on the wooden floor. The same knife Jeremy used last night to slice the corn kernels off the cob.  
  
Eddie's knees buckle, and he feels dizzy. He never had much of a strong stomach. He almost fainted once when he saw Isaac pump lead into a hefty buck that just wouldn't go down. He is paralyzed, panic and terror causing an emotional meltdown. It’s amazing he’s even able to breathe.   
  
“Casey!” Eddie cries, forcing out the name around what feels like a cotton sock in his throat.  
  
“You two play nice,” Casey hollers back. From his position on the couch, Casey can't see into the kitchen, but he must hear the blood bubbling in Pamela's throat as she struggles for breath.    
  
Oh, sweet mother Mary, those  _sounds_. Eddie wants to clap his hands over his ears so he can’t hear the raspy gurgles, but his arms hang limply at his sides. He should go to her, try to stem the inevitable, but his legs won't move. All lines of communication between his brain and body seem to be down.  
  
The dog sniffs his way into the kitchen and sees the macabre scene. He barks a deep throaty alert, over and over before trotting to Pamela and licking at the tacky blood, trying to help. Pamela's hands fall away from her throat and into the crimson pool surrounding her.  
  
Her face is white with approaching death, her bulging, unseeing eyes imploring him to  _do something_. But Eddie is unable to function.  
  
Eddie vaguely registers Casey appearing in the kitchen doorway, then Casey's speaking to him, but his voice is far away, like Eddie is hearing him underwater. Casey grabs the dog by the collar and pulls him away from the body. With his free hand, Casey slaps at Eddie's cheek, just enough to break through the haze.   
  
Casey says, “Eddie, c'mon, I know this is scary, but I need your head in the game, okay? Don't move or touch anything until I get back. We have to preserve the crime scene. You got it?” His usually pinked cheeks are worringly pale, his eyes wide, but his voice is calm and commanding, and Eddie feels his whole-body lock panic melt away. Thank the Lord for people who know what they’re doing.  
  
Eddie nods, unable to really comprehend anything beyond the red veil in front of his eyes. Then Casey and the dog are gone, and Eddie is alone in his house with a dead woman.  _For the second time_ , he thinks, and his legs give out beneath him.  
  
Half of Eddie's brain tries to force him into numbness, into a place where none of this horror exists. But the other half is working overtime analyzing the scene from every angle, and even in his detached state he knows no one will believe a word of his story. Eddie himself isn't even sure what happened here, but he has a pretty solid conviction that he didn't kill Pamela. He had his back to her, didn't he? He doesn't remember picking up the knife. Why would he want to kill her in the first place?  
  
Blood soaks through the knees of his overalls, and the wet sensation of warmth forces a choked noise from his throat. Eddie begins to sob loud, quaking wails, his chest hitching as the tears flow.  
  
On some level he knows he should run. The cops aren't going to let this go, especially since this will be the second body found in Eddie's house. But his legs won't work, and even if they did, where would he go?   
  
He doesn't know how long he remains there blubbering, but at some point he is hauled to his feet by Detective Zebrowski and Chief Parks.  
  
“I'm done playing nice,” Zebrowski says, snapping handcuffs around Eddie's wrists. Eddie barely registers the way the cuffs pinch his skin. “I have a two-body limit before I stop giving people the benefit of the doubt. Maybe we can't nail you for your brother, but we can sure as fuck get you on this one.” Zebrowski drags Eddie around the crime scene and out the door.   
  
Casey, Mike Parks, and Jeremy are waiting outside.  
  
“Eddie, what's the fuck?” Jeremy says, but it isn't accusatory.  
  
“He didn't do this!” Casey snarls, stepping in the cops' path. “You bring him to the station again, you might as well invite the whole town to lynch him.”  
  
“Personal opinion aside, that's too much fucking paperwork. We’re taking him to county.” Zebrowski sort of shoves Eddie at Casey, trying to force him out of the way. Casey doesn’t budge.  
  
“Look at his clothes,” Mike protests. “If he killed her, he'd have blood all over him, not just on his legs.”  
  
Chief Parks looks at his son. His face is a tombstone with ‘don’t fuck this up’ etched on it. “Son, stay out of this. It’s not your case.”  
  
Mike ignores his father’s reprimand and points to Eddie's blood-soaked knees. “He was kneeling in the blood while it pooled. Check the crime scene. He couldn't possibly have killed her, then gone upstairs to change his clothes and knelt in the blood. By that point, the blood would have pooled, and his knee prints would be more like footprints. Twenty bucks the blood in there is formed around those leg prints, meaning he was on the ground when the blood pooled.”  
  
“He was the last person to see Pam alive,” Chief Parks bites back. “And her body was found in his house. It’s open and shut.”  
  
“Wait!” Mike calls as Eddie is hauled towards the waiting police car. Chief Parks and Zebrowski pause. “What's that on the back of his neck?”  
  
“Blood! 'Cause he's a fucking murderer!” Zebrowski snaps.  
  
“It's blood spatter,” says Mike. He moves closer, and Eddie feels hot breath on the back of his neck. “See? How do you think that got there?”  
  
“We've got him dead to rights, and you pick now to be a complete and total nerd about blood spatter?”  
  
“That's arterial spray. Which means he was turned away from the victim when her throat was cut,” Mike says.  
  
Zebrowski looks at Casey with a hard glare. “You're big enough to wrestle a strappin' gal like Pamela into submission. Maybe you did it.”  
  
Casey scrunches up his face. “Accusing the lawyer now? Great police work, Tweedledick and Tweedleballs.”  
  
“Dad, just think this through!” Mike’s saying as Zebrowski shoves Eddie a little too hard into the back of the police cruiser. “Please! You know Eddie!”  
  
Chief Parks turns and faces his son. The festering rage on his face has been replaced by something resembling pity. “Son, one day you’ll learn that you can never truly know anyone.”


	9. Chapter 9

Inside the Gumberry County Jail, Eddie has visitors. Casey and Mike meet him in a small interview room that smells of ammonia. Behind the Plexiglass shield, Mike looks hopeful, albeit just as scared as Eddie.  
  
“Where’s Jeremy?” Eddie asks.  
  
“He’s back at the house, keeping a close eye on the evidence collection,” says Casey. “Gotta make sure these country bumpkins don’t botch the job.” He looks from Mike to Eddie. “Present company excluded, of course.”  
  
Eddie manages a small, tired smile.  
  
“I know you didn’t do this,” Mike says to him. “You’re not a killer, Eddie.”  
  
“Sure seems like it,” Eddie says, his voice sounding tiny and hoarse in his own ears.  
  
“Something happened in that house,” Mike continues, fervent now. “Something that maybe you don’t understand. But if you tell me what you remember, we can figure it out together.”  
  
Eddie takes a shaky breath. His clothes have been bagged and tagged as evidence, so now he's wearing a prison-issue blue jumpsuit. “You'll think I'm crazy. I’ve turned it over in my head again and again, but I just don’t think you’ll believe me.”  
  
“Try me.” Mike smiles briefly. “We were friends through books about ghosts and aliens, remember? I think I've got you beat in the crazy department. Or at least evenly matched.”  
  
“Did you forget he dug up the body of his dead mother and kept her in the house?” Casey says to Mike. Mike gives him a small shrug.  
  
“I turned away from her,” Eddie says. “Then when I looked back...” He shuts his eyes, remembering the awfulness of it all.  
  
“You mean Pamela?” Mike leans forward on the table separating them. Eddie nods, and Mike asks, “You were turned away. Is that how the blood got on the back of your shirt?”  
  
“I think so. I felt something wet and icky on the back of my neck and my hair, so I turned around, and there she was, bleeding like a stuck pig.”  
  
“And you both were in the kitchen?”  
  
“That's right.”  
  
“Did you touch her at all?”  
  
Eddie shakes his head. “No, no, I couldn’t. I wanted to help her, but I just froze. I’ve never seen that much blood come out of a person before. It’s different with animals, though I don’t like seeing that one bit either.”  
  
Mike says, “The knife we found next to Pamela's body... Do you remember where that was before it ended up on the floor?”  
  
“It must'a been on the counter,” says Eddie. “We left some of last night’s dishes out after we washed them.” Was it really only last night that Eddie had shared supper with Jeremy and Casey? It feels like ages ago, another life.  
  
“Did you feel anything strange in the moments before Pamela was killed?”  
  
“I felt really cold, which wasn't right 'cause I was burning up on account of Mrs. Sharkey being sweet on me.” Eddie blushes as he says this.  
  
Casey looks at Eddie with a slight shake of his head, like maybe Eddie wasn’t supposed to say that last part.   
  
Mike steeples his fingers. “This morning, Jeremy suggested there might be a spirit or some sort of presence in your house. Do you think that's a possibility?” He doesn’t seem interested in Eddie’s previous admission about Pamela.  
  
Eddie's brow furrows. “You mean like a ghost?”   
  
“Yeah, something like that.”  
  
“I've never felt any ghosts or spirits or what-have-you. Why would a ghost be haunting me?”  
  
“I think the disruption of Isaac's resting place awakened his spirit,” Mike says. “People who die violent or untimely deaths can become vengeful spirits. And they come back for a reason, usually a nasty one, like revenge on the person who hurt them. Everything a spirit does is an attempt to communicate. But communicating across the veil isn't easy. So Isaac's carrying around a lot of rage in order to do something like this.”  
  
Could ghosts be real? Eddie never gave them much credence until now, but it seems to be the only possibility at this juncture. Casey didn’t kill Pamela, and it’s unlikely she sliced her own throat. Eddie stares at his hands, as though trying to unearth some secret mystery.  
  
Ma regarded ghosts and spirits as the devil’s work, but, as with most things, it seems she was wrong.  
  
“So why would Isaac want to kill this lady?” Casey asks Eddie.  
  
Eddie pauses, considering this question as clearly as he can. “Isaac was always real quiet, and he'd go off in the woods a lot and hunt. He teased me about bein' so close with Ma, but it wasn't the friendly kind of teasing. There was a cruelty to it. He was a lot more like Pa, come to think of it.”  
  
“How come you didn't tell us this before?” Mike asks, but he has to know the answer.  
  
Eddie looks at him like Mike has just asked the stupidest question ever uttered by a human being. “'Cause you'd think I killed him. I read enough books to know that.”  
  
Mike considers this. “Do you think he’s trying to frame you?”  
  
“I s’pose that’s what it looks like.”  
  
“I’m gonna do everything I can for you, Ed,” Mike says. “They can’t charge you without evidence, and all the evidence they do have says you’re innocent.”  
  
“How can you help?”  
  
“I can get Zebrowski on my side if I tell him there’s a ghost involved,” says Mike. “Then we can put our heads together and figure something out.”  
  
“Am I going to prison?” Eddie wonders. He will not survive prison. He is too fragile to contend with his peers in Harvest. To be surrounded by hardened criminals with a leering eye for weakness…   
  
“If this goes to trial, the state would need to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that you’re guilty, and they can’t do that,” Casey explains. “That’s why they haven’t charged you yet. But for the sake of argument, let’s say they do. It’s not a slam-dunk case, so they’d try to load the jury with people who don’t like you. But if you were found guilty through a biased jury—remember, a jury is supposed to be impartial and have no prior knowledge about the case—we could file for a mistrial. All of which would cost the state an incredible amount of money they don’t have. And if there’s even a whiff of the paranormal, Harvest will turn into a media circus. Can you imagine that tiny town crammed with news vans and journalists and reporters looking for an exclusive? It’ll be the Twinkie defense all over again: ‘a ghost did it.’”  
  
“And let’s say they move the trial to another city,” Mike adds, seeing that Eddie’s worried expression hasn’t changed. “No one there would know you, so there wouldn’t be pre-existing biases. And there still wouldn’t have conclusive evidence that says you did it. A jury would find you not guilty.”  
  
“Maybe so,” Eddie says, “but by then the damage would be done, don’t you think? Once a murder suspect, always a murder suspect.”  
  
Mike’s mouth presses into a thin line. “I’m gonna do my best for you,” he says again, and Eddie understands this is all Mike can promise him.  
  
“I’m counting on you,” Eddie tells the two of them.  
  
They wish him the best of luck, then they are gone, their footsteps echoing off the cold concrete walls.  
  


* * *

Back at the Harvest police station, Mike Parks finds Detective Thomas Zebrowski in the break room munching on a ham sandwich. Zebrowski looks up when Mike’s footfalls come closer. “You okay?” Zebrowski asks around a mouthful of sandwich.  
  
Mike hasn’t caught sight of himself lately, but he imagines he looks worse for the wear, especially under the harsh fluorescent lights of the break room. “Long day.”  
  
“It’s only lunchtime.”  
  
Mike takes the empty seat across from Zebrowski. Might as well dive right into the deep end on this one. “Are you interested in a possible haunting?”  
  
“Name the time and place.”  
  
“The Lehrke house.”  
  
Zebrowski stops chewing, gives Mike a skeptical look. Whatever he’d expected Mike to say, it wasn’t that. “You think a ghost killed Pamela?”  
  
“It adds up.” Mike runs down what Jeremy told him at the diner, and what Eddie said in county lock-up. When Mike is finished, Zebrowski just makes a face.  
  
Tough crowd.  
  
“Think about the blood spatter,” Mike forges on. “It’s literally impossible for arterial spray to end up on the back of Eddie’s shirt unless he was turned away from her when her throat was slit.”  
  
“Or he was wearing his shirt backwards when he did it, knowing we’d make that same assumption.”  
  
Mike rolls his eyes. “All due respect, I don’t think Eddie’s that clever. And even if he did that, there wouldn’t be blood on the back of his head, too.”  
  
“You’re really goin’ to bat for Sleepy-Eye McMotherlover, huh?”  
  
It’s not worth scolding Zebrowski for being insensitive, so Mike ignores the comment. He’s learned to ignore a lot of the weird shit that leaves Zebrowski’s mouth. “I thought you’d be a little more excited about the ghost, to be honest.”  
  
“I want it to be true. Holy shit, do I want to see a real live ghost—”  
  
“Isn’t that an oxymoron?”  
  
“—but we’ll never convince the chief.”   
  
Mike sighs, momentarily discouraged. “I’m not too concerned with that. The evidence will exonerate Ed. The DA won’t press charges if he doesn’t have a case.” In Cedar Pass, where the trial would be held, the small-town politics of Harvest no longer apply. The state will need a solid case against Eddie in order to proceed with a trial, and Mike isn’t so sure they have that. At least, not one on which the prosecution would be willing to wager a humiliating and expensive loss.  
  
“I want to go to the house and see if we can communicate with Isaac’s spirit,” Mike says. “At the very least, it’ll help us figure out who killed him, and why he might’ve wanted to hurt Pamela.”  
  
Zebrowski’s looking at something—or someone—just behind Mike. Mike turns around to see his father, Chief Parks, standing there with a scowl on his face. “I know you’re not bringing that fantastical nonsense into this case, Detective.” Hearing Dad refer to Mike by his title rather than his name sets him on edge.  
  
“Don’t you wonder about the blood spatter?”  
  
Chief Parks exhales a weary breath. “I know Eddie’s your friend, but you’re seeing something that isn’t there. Want can twist your perception.”  
  
“Then doesn’t it work both ways? You want Eddie to be the murderer, so you’re ignoring things that don’t point to him.”  
  
“There are always loose ends and things that don’t quite fit. That’s how the world works.”  
  
Mike holds his father’s gaze. “If you can’t explain how Eddie got the blood on him, he’s gonna walk.”  
  
This doesn’t seem to bother Chief Parks. “Just simmer down, alright? You’re too close to this case. Back away.”  
  
“Why are you gunning so hard for him?” Mike asks. “When you brought him in the first time, you let Zebrowski knock him around a little.”  
  
“Hey!” Zebrowski protests. “The weird little fucker hit himself. He knew we’d have this exact argument.”  
  
Mike ignores him, his focus honed on the chief. “You had it out for Eddie. Why?”  
  
Chief Parks’s salt-and-pepper mustache twitches. “Eddie had his mother’s corpse in his house, propped up in her bed like she was takin’ a mid-day nap. If that doesn’t ring odd to you, son, I failed as a father.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s plenty weird! But it doesn’t mean he’s a killer,” Mike says, trying to keep his tone calm. He really wishes he had more than ‘I don’t think Eddie would kill someone’ to justify his position, since his father seems oblivious to the incongruous nature of the blood spatter.   
  
Chief Parks just shakes his head.  
  
“You know I’m right,” Mike presses.  
  
“I know you’ve always been hard-headed. You and your sister both.” Chief Parks sighs, as though remembering every single instance his children have been difficult. “Must’ve got it from me.”  
  
“I want to look into this on my own. Don’t get in my way, and I won’t get in yours.”  
  
Chief Parks offers a shrug of acquiesce. “It’s your free time. You haven’t needed my permission for that since you were a kid.”


	10. Chapter 10

Mike Parks decides to pay a visit to Fred Wilson. He’d almost forgotten about Wilson in all the commotion surrounding Pamela’s murder, but Jeremy seemed certain there was something there. So Mike doesn’t see the harm in driving out to Wilson’s place for a short chat.   
  
To call Fred Wilson’s house ‘ramshackle’ would be an understatement. Mike rolls his car into Wilson’s well-worn driveway and stops. Wilson’s white truck is parked out front, so Mike knows he’s home. He exits the car and knocks on the front door. “Fred Wilson? It’s Mike Parks with the Harvest police. Can I have a minute of your time?”  
  
Mike hears shuffling on the other side, then the slow creak of the door as it opens. Fred Wilson’s beardy face peers through the screen. “You’re the chief’s boy?”  
  
“Yes sir,” Mike says with a nod. “But right now I’m just here as a neighbor. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Isaac Lehrke.”  
  
Wilson’s face screws up as though he’s tasted a lemon. “Two of Ed’s friends stopped by yesterday asking those same questions. They weren’t real friendly.”  
  
“Well, then I’ll try to be a little more amicable,” Mike says. “May I come in?”  
  
Wilson debates this for a moment but eventually relents. “Might as well.”  
  
The inside of the house is just as drab and depressing as the outside. Fred Wilson is definitely living the bachelor life, albeit not a happy one. The sink overflows with dishes yet to be scrubbed. Old newspapers lie in stacks on various flat surfaces. The kitchen backsplash is a grimy shade of yellow. Mike doesn’t even want to imagine what the bathroom looks like.  
  
Mike sits on a couch that looks like it’s infested with fleas, though he doesn’t see any animals. Uh, living animals, that is. Fred Wilson’s walls are covered in mounted deer heads, trophies from his various hunts. A particularly large buck’s head sits above the rabbit-ears television, as though a silent judge of Wilson’s TV-watching habits.   
  
“Get you anything?” Wilson sort of snarls, and for the briefest half-second Mike thinks the deer head has spoken.    
  
“N—no, thanks.”  
  
“Good.” Wilson plops into a ratty armchair. “What do you want to know?”   
  
“I was curious if you had any particular problems with Isaac.”  
  
“I had no problem with him ‘til he started stickin’ his nose in my business. A man needs his privacy.”  
  
“Was he trespassing on your property?”  
  
Wilson takes a moment to answer, as though debating whether he should mention what he’s about to say. “He started following me when I made trips out of town. I didn’t know what he was doing until he confronted me.”  
  
“What did he confront you about?”  
  
Wilson’s gaze drops to the coffee table between the two of them.  
  
“I’m not here to make moral judgments, Fred,” says Mike. “If you did something you’re embarrassed about, rest assured I don’t care. I’m only interested in finding out what happened to Isaac.”  
  
Wilson begins plucking at some loose threads on the arm of the chair. “Isaac found out I was seein’ another woman.”  
  
Mike looks blase, but truthfully nothing really shocks him anymore.  
  
“You wouldn’t know her,” Wilson adds, uncomfortable with the silence. “She lived in the Rapids. I met her through work.” Wilson commuted a bit for his job as an appliance repairman.  
  
“When you say Isaac confronted you, what exactly do you mean?” Mike asks, trying to steer this conversation back on track.  
  
“He blackmailed me.”  
  
Mike leans back against the sofa, trying to take it all in.   
  
“Said he’d tell my wife I was steppin’ out on her unless I paid him two-fifty.”  
  
Mike figures they’re not talking two dollars and fifty cents here. “Did you?”  
  
Wilson lets out a raspy laugh. “I told him to go fuck himself. Those kids didn’t make much money ‘round the farm after Mary sold the butcher shop. So I figured he was just screwing around, acting tough and trying to earn some money.”  
  
Mike takes in the shambles of Fred Wilson’s life. “But he wasn’t, was he?”  
  
A bitter laugh this time. “He told Marge, alright. She packed up and moved in with her sister in Green Bay.”  
  
“Did you see Isaac after that?”  
  
Wilson sighs, settling into the chair. “Detective, I know you’re lookin’ at this like I killed Isaac. And it don’t look too good for me on that account. But Marge leavin’ hit me real hard. By the time I got outta bed and decided life was still worth livin’, Isaac was already gone. I figured he up and left town to get away from Mary. Or maybe he tried scamming the wrong person and ended up with buckshot in his head. Either way, I had nothing to do with it.”  
  
Mike isn’t sure how to play this one. On the surface, Fred Wilson seems honest enough in this regard, despite his shortcomings. But he has an alibi no one can confirm, and a hell of a good motive. He could easily have whacked Isaac’s skull, strangled him, and buried him off the highway. Although none of that explains the curious condition of Isaac’s bones or the meticulous removal of the flesh, it doesn’t exonerate Fred Wilson either.   
  
Could this mystery woman have played a part in Isaac’s disappearance? Say she found out about the blackmail. It wouldn’t take much for her to figure out that was why Fred Wilson stopped seeing her. Maybe she took revenge on the blackmailer…  
  
There’s something missing here, and Mike needs to find out exactly what that is.  
  


* * *

“What is this?” Jeremy says after he opens the front door of the Lehrke house. Standing outside are Mike Parks and Detective Zebrowski. Mike’s carrying a “spirit board” he probably bought for ten bucks at a phony occult shop. Zebrowski looks ecstatic at the possibility of communicating with a ghost.   
  
“What is  _this_?” Mike counters. “You guys are crashing here?”  
  
After the crime scene tape came down, it seemed impractical not to continue staying in the house. Jeremy shrugs. “Casey said it was fine.” They had drawn straws on who would clean up the blood in the kitchen. Jeremy lost. Scrubbing that floor felt like desecrating a grave.  
  
“I guess I just didn’t think you’d be here,” Mike says.   
  
“We’re here to talk to the ghost,” Zebrowski says. He holds up the box containing the spirit board. “This right here is our gateway to the graveyard world.” He shoulders his way into the house.   
  
The dog trots up to Zebrowski and gives him a thorough sniff. Upon seeing the dog, Zebrowski looks happier than Jeremy has ever seen him. “Hey there. Are you a good boy?” He rubs the dog’s head, and the pup closes his eyes in appreciation. “Of course you are.”  
  
“Patches, leave the nice detectives alone,” Casey scolds from the couch.   
  
“Since when is his name Patches?” Jeremy wonders aloud.  
  
“Since now.”  
  
“I thought we were gonna let Eddie name him.”  
  
“I gotta call him something ‘til then.”  
  
Patches saunters up to Casey and sticks his nose in the casserole dish he’s holding. Casey gets up, stores the dish and its half-eaten contents in the oven.   
  
“You guys really think that stupid thing’ll work?” Casey asks, referring to the spirit board.  
  
“If you’ve got a better idea about how to talk to a spirit, be my fucking guest,” Zebrowski says.   
  
The four of them sit cross legged around the crackling fireplace with the spirit board in the center of their human circle. Patches rests his head on Casey's lap, wanting to be part of whatever's going on here.  
  
Jeremy watches as Mike leads them through the proper procedure to contact the spirit world. Apparently, using a Ouija board involves an entire ritual of lighting candles and special incantations.  
  
Casey stifles a yawn. “What's the point of all this again?”  
  
“How the spirit world contacts us is based on connecting energy,” Mike explains. “With a spirit board, you run the risk of opening a gate that can let anything through: dark spirits or light spirits. But since we're already in a presumably haunted location with just one spirit, and I've purified the channels, so to speak, we'll be contacting a specific spirit instead of a random one.”  
  
“No offense,” says Casey, “but that sounds like bullshit.”  
  
“You’re thinking about it,” Zebrowski says. “Don’t think about it. You need to be in the right mindset for this. We’ve got all the lights off, the candles lit—perfect. Unbutton your shirts. Take off your underwear.”  
  
Jeremy and Casey share a look.  
  
“I’ll start,” Zebrowski volunteers.  
  
Mike stops Zebrowski with a hand. “They’re not gonna do this if you threaten them with nudity.”  He shakes his head, probably wondering how, out of all the small towns in all the world, this strange leprechaun man walked into Harvest.  
  
“Maybe just unbutton your pants a little,” Zebrowski says, without missing a beat. “You need to feel free. Light up a huge, thick fuckin' Gandalf stick and toke it down. Get rippity-ripped, because we’re about to have ourselves an ooky-spooky ghost adventure.”  
  
Jeremy makes a face. “Did you really just say ‘ooky-spooky’? This isn’t an episode of Scooby-Doo.”  
  
“You’re right. It’s not. It’s real, and that’s what makes it awesome.”   
  
Mike settles his fingers on the milky white planchette. “Hands in, guys.”  
  
Zebrowski, Casey, and Jeremy touch their fingers to the planchette.  
  
Jeremy's heard all the warnings and spooky tales meant to discourage messing around with Ouija boards, but he never paid them much heed. He didn't truly believe in ghosts or otherworldly presences until now, so there was never any reason to use a spirit board. But he can't tame the fear hardening in his belly as Zebrowksi says, “It's best to start off with simple yes or no questions and work from there.” He addresses the room. “Is anyone here with us?”  
  
Nothing. At first. Then the planchette inches across the board until it reaches “yes.”  
  
Casey scoffs, unimpressed. “One of you guys did that.”  
  
Jeremy isn't so sure.  
  
“My name is Thomas Zebrowski. Will you give me your name?”   
  
They wait, then the planchette slowly moves.   
  
 _No._  
  
“Hi No, I'm Dad.” Casey chuckles.  
  
Jeremy groans.  
  
“Shut the fuck up,” Zebrowski hisses under his breath. He diverts his attention back to the task at hand. “Are you looking for revenge?”  
  
The pointer slides under their fingers.  
  
Yes.  
  
Jeremy stops breathing for a moment. Goosebumps prickle on his skin, despite him wearing multiple layers of clothing and sitting beside the warm fireplace. No one else seems to be affected by the cold; if they are, they're being a good sport about it.  
  
“Are you here to harm one of us?” Zebrowski asks the spirit.  
  
The pointer doesn't move. Casey and Jeremy exchange a look.  
  
“Why isn't it working?” Jeremy asks.  
  
“Maybe... the answer is yes,” Mike points out, as the planchette is still highlighting the word.  
  
Zebrowski takes a moment to breathe, which unnerves the fuck out of Jeremy. If their guide through the terrifying world of spirits is shaken up, what does that mean for the rest of them? “Which one of us do you want to hurt?”  
  
The pointer slides again, achingly slow.  
  
S.  
  
T.  
  
O.  
  
N.  
  
E.  
  
Jeremy's insides are aflame, bursting with terror. “Me? Why?”  
  
“Which one of you guys is doing this?” Casey asks, but there's a quality of fear in his voice, overshadowing his usual bluster. “Here's an idea. Why don't we all take our hands off the pointer and see if it still moves.”  
  
They draw their hands in, fingers curled tightly into fists.  
  
“What's your unfinished business here?” Zebrowski asks.  
  
The planchette, without anyone touching it, spells out: I-S-A-A-C.  
  
“Jesus,” Casey breathes out.  
  
“Isaac Lehrke? Is that your name?” Zebrowksi says.  
  
They wait with bated breath. Jeremy hears his heartbeat in his ears.  
  
The pointer floats to “goodbye.” The candles extinguish at once, startling everyone, even the dog.  
  
“Well, that was awesome,” Casey says after a moment.  
  
Zebrowski turns to Jeremy. “What the fuck did you do? Why would Isaac want to kill you?”  
  
“I barely even knew him.” Jeremy tries to recall anything he might have said or done to piss Isaac off, but the memories are murky after so many years. And it’s impossible to predict what innocuous comment or action a person could latch onto and carry with them. “He was even more of a loner than Eddie was. Mostly by choice. And he was a year ahead of us.”  
  
Mike begins to pack up the board. He's seen the writing on the wall: this place is haunted as fuck, and he's not sticking around any longer than he needs to. “Well, now we know it's Isaac, so maybe tomorrow we'll do an interview with Jeremy and see what comes up. For now, just hold tight. Line the doors and windows with salt to keep the ghost out. The sooner we solve Isaac's murder, the sooner we can put his spirit to rest.”  
  
They say their goodbyes, and Mike leaves with the board.  
  
Jeremy keeps Casey and Patches close that night, as well as the iron fireplace poker.


	11. Chapter 11

_June 1971_  
  
Dad had extra time on his hands during the summers, so he took Jeremy on a little road trip to Milwaukee for a Brewers game. Jeremy was sixteen years old and felt a bit too old to be attending baseball games with his dad, but it’s not like he had anything better to do. Eddie wasn’t allowed visitors—Mary kept him plenty busy on the farm to make sure he didn’t have idle hands or time—and Harvest wasn’t exactly an epicenter of fun anyway. The nearest movie theater was in the next town over, and, unless you were lucky enough to live in Green Bay or Milwaukee, professional sports were something you only saw on television.   
  
Inside Dad’s ‘58 Imperial, Three Dog Night’s ‘Joy to the World’ crackled through the ancient speakers. Dad rarely listened to recent music by choice, so this was clearly an attempt on his part to bond with Jeremy, to show him he was cool and hip with the times. Jeremy would have preferred to hear Led Zeppelin or Black Sabbath, but those sort of bands didn’t get much radio airplay.  
  
“So, Jer,” Dad said in that way of his when he was trying to seem casual, but also sounding like he was building up to something. “You’re in your sophomore year now. Before you know it, high school’ll be over.”  
  
“It can’t come fast enough,” Jeremy muttered.  
  
Dad made a noise that sounded like a soft chuckle. “I remember feeling that way too. But when you get to be my age you’ll look back on these years and wish you could do it all again.”  
  
“You’re joking, right? High school is terrible.”  
  
“It’s like trench warfare. All you have to do is survive.”  
  
“But you still look back and think, ‘oh, that was great’?”  
  
“I’m a lot wiser now, sure. But I’m also older and harder and more alone than I was back then. I’ve seen things I wish I hadn’t.”  
  
Jeremy watched the farms and dells roll by on either side of the highway. “You had more friends in high school than you do now?” Hard to believe, considering what a huge nerd Dad eventually became. Odds are Dad started as a nerd and only got worse as time went on.  
  
“I had a few very close friends, just like you have,” said Dad. “But we drifted apart. People moved away, went off to fight in the war. Some never came back. When you’re an adult… your spouse is your best friend. Everyone else falls by the wayside, because they’re all caught up in their own lives, and there’s not a lot of room for you. They have kids, grandkids, high-pressure jobs and responsibilities. But when you’re a kid, spending time with your friends is all you think about.”  
  
Jeremy never really considered that before. He’d thought growing up meant total freedom and opportunity to choose the story of his life, the chance to explore the world and discover new ideas. But now it sounded as though adulthood meant narrowing perspectives, the world shrinking to the tiny focus of whatever was in front of him.   
  
“So why grow up at all if it just limits you?” Jeremy wondered.  
  
A half-smile twitched at the corners of Dad’s mouth. “Philosophers have been trying to figure that one out since the beginning of time. I doubt we’ll ever have an answer. So cherish your youth while you have it.”  
  
They fell into silence for a moment as the Imperial burned more highway beneath its tires. Some days Jeremy wanted to get in this car and just drive until he ran out of road. Escaping Harvest felt like an itch he couldn’t scratch.  
  
“That being said,” Dad spoke up, “have you thought about what you’re going to do when you graduate?”  
  
“So much for cherishing my youth.”  
  
“There’s no harm in planning for the future.”  
  
Jeremy debated how to answer this. He didn’t want to lie, because he’d have to maintain that lie. Being honest seemed like it might bite him in the ass and disappoint his father. But sitting here being an indecisive moron was probably worse.  
  
“You’ll hate it,” Jeremy said, buying himself some time. He didn’t want to give up a secret that would only add to the pile of questionable behavior Dad must have observed in him during adolescence. It’s not like Jeremy had ever brought a girl over to the house or even mentioned having a crush on one. Dad would have had to be blind and deaf and completely oblivious not to realize Jeremy wasn’t the red-blooded heterosexual son he’d been hoping for.  
  
“Don’t plan your life around making me happy. If it’s the life you’ve chosen, I’ll be proud of you.”  
  
“You wanna write that down? Y’know, for proof?”  
  
“Now I’m curious.”  
  
Out of time. Jeremy sighed. “I, uh, I guess I might wanna be a cook or something…” he muttered. “Maybe a baker, since Mom says I’m good at it.”  
  
Dad blinked. “Nothing wrong with that.”  
  
“Really?” Jeremy toyed with the frayed seams of his jeans. “I thought you’d freak out, y’know, say it’s something only women would do.”   
  
“A man’s gotta learn to feed himself,” Dad said. “I was a cook in the navy for two years. No shame in it. Cooking is both an art and a science. You get to create something and see how different compounds react to each other. It’s kind of fascinating. For example, baking powder produces carbon dioxide twice—when it’s mixed and when it’s heated.”  
  
Jeremy rolled his eyes, but a dorky science lecture was better than the alternative.  
  


* * *

 _November 1980_  
  
Droves of reporters are parked outside the Gumberry County courthouse, their news vans wrapped in cables and antennae. Only local stations seem to be here right now, but Jeremy knows it won’t take long for this story to draw in the big guns.  
  
Jeremy slips through the crowd without too much trouble. In their eyes he is a stranger, unimportant and irrelevant. Inside the courtroom, he spots Mike in the first row. Chief Parks is there, too. Casey’s sitting at the defense table. Casey had left before Jeremy even woke up, perhaps to get in some strategizing with Eddie before the arraignment. Jeremy approaches him for a quick word.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
“Hey!” Casey turns so he’s facing Jeremy. He’s decked out like a lawyer: a dark checkered blazer, a red-striped tie, white shirt, and brown trousers.  
  
“Nice digs.”  
  
Casey offers a smirk. “Good news: we’re the first arraignment of the morning.”  
  
“Why’s that good?”  
  
“Because judges get tired. Early in the day is your best bet for a ruling in your favor,” Casey explains. “As the morning goes on, that chance drops to zero. But after lunch, it spikes back up again. You make a lot of decisions all day, and eventually your brain says ‘fuck it’ and takes the easy way out. And in our case, the easy way is taking the DA’s word for it.”  
  
“You’re the expert,” Jeremy says with a parting smile. He slips into the next row beside Mike, and he feels Chief Parks’s eyes on him.  
  
“How’d last night go?” Mike asks.  
  
“We’re still alive, aren’t we?”  
  
Their hushed conversation stops when a guard leads Eddie through an open door. Jeremy’s heart crumbles into dust at the sight of him; Eddie’s wearing a gray court-issued jumpsuit, his hands cuffed in front of him. He looks tiny and frail and terrified, but there’s a baffling detail that sticks out above the rest: Eddie is wearing glasses.  
  
Even Mike seems a little confused by the eyewear. “Since when does Eddie wear glasses?”  
  
Jeremy shrugs in response. It’s not impossible that Eddie might have had vision problems within the last eight years, given his droopy eyelid.  
  
Eddie gives Jeremy a small smile before joining Casey at the defense table.   
  
The bailiff says, “The People versus Edward Lehrke.”  
  
“What’s the charge?” the judge asks. Jeremy reads the name engraved on his plaque: Judge Myers.  
  
“Murder in the second degree, Your Honor.” The prosecutor looks old enough to be one of Chief Parks’s friends in high places.  
  
“Is that your DA buddy?” Jeremy asks him.  
  
Chief Parks gives a subtle nod.  
  
Judge Myers asks Eddie, “How do you plead?”  
  
“Not guilty,” Eddie says, forcing his voice to stay strong.  
  
“Bail?”  
  
“Your Honor,” the DA begins, “the People request Mr. Lehrke be remanded without bail.”  
  
Jeremy’s jaw drops. He looks at Mike, and Mike’s face is a study in astonishment and anger.  
  
Casey appears unfazed, like he has anticipated this turn of events.  
  
“Mr. Lerhke is accused of murdering a woman in his own home,” the DA continues. “He has no family and no real roots in the community—”  
  
“Nonsense, Your Honor,” Casey interrupts. “Mr. Lehrke has no criminal record. He’s lived in Harvest his entire life. One of his friends is Detective Mike Parks of the Harvest police department. Mr. Lehrke’s family is dead. That’s no reason to punish him.”  
  
“Your Honor,” the DA volleys back, “we believe Mr. Lehrke will flee the jurisdiction if given the opportunity. He has no job—”  
  
“That’s outrageous, Your Honor. Mr. Lehrke is a farmer who makes his living off the land and leasing acres of his property to neighbors. But he has no means of attaining the funds necessary to flee. And even so, he has nowhere to go. The world outside Harvest would be terrifying and confusing to him.”  
  
Jeremy’s heart sinks into his stomach. The way Casey lays this out makes it sound like Eddie is the most pathetic person on the planet, incapable of even the most basic functions. Eddie may have lived all of his life here, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t acclimate to a big city.   
  
“Counsel for the defense mentioned Mr. Lerhke’s connections to the community,” the DA says, switching gears. “Both of them are here. Jeremy Stone and Mike Parks. Mr. Stone himself fled his hometown of Harvest for Chicago, where he works as a chef at an upscale restaurant—”  
  
“So what?” Casey blurts out. “Is that a crime? This has nothing to do with my client, Your Honor. And where would Mr. Lehrke go? He’s never been on a plane or even a train before. He couldn’t find the Bahamas on a map. And without sufficient funds, he wouldn’t get anywhere on his own.”  
  
Jeremy’s hands tighten into fists. Eddie’s not as helpless as Casey’s making him sound. But if Eddie is unable to manage himself independently, well, who’s fault is that? Guilt burns in Jeremy’s stomach.  
  
 _You shouldn’t have left._  
  
“Your Honor, Mr. Lehrke has connections to Mr. Stone, who has the means to facilitate an escape,” the DA says. “And due to their past relationship—”  
  
Casey cuts that one off quickly. “Again, so what? Your Honor, the district attorney first blames Mr. Lehrke’s alleged lack of connections to his hypothetical escape, but then turns around and says because Mr. Lehrke has friends he’ll make a run for it? Which is it? The prosecution’s case relies on hypotheticals and improbable guesswork. They have no solid evidence Mr. Lehrke is a flight risk.”  
  
Judge Myers sits back and studies the both attorneys for a moment. “The request to deny bail does seem a little extreme. Since the defendant has no criminal record and no means of leaving the jurisdiction, bail is set at $10,000.” The judge bangs the gavel. “Next case?”  
  
Chief Parks mutters something under his breath, a look of disgust on his face. The guards take Eddie back through the open door. Casey joins Jeremy and Mike. “You’re welcome,” he says, sing-song.  
  
Mike rises to slide out of the row. “There’s a conference room down the hall. Let’s go.”  
  
The three of them gather in the defendant’s conference room. Casey has a self-satisfied smirk on his cherubic face, and on any other day Jeremy would be aroused by his arrogance, but he’s too twisted up now.  
  
“Is that how you get things to go your way?” Jeremy asks with steel in his voice. “Just shit-talk your clients?”  
  
Casey’s smugness falls away, his nose wrinkled in displeasure. “Huh?”  
  
“All that in there? Talking about how Eddie couldn’t find his ass with both hands? How he’s just some lowly farmer with no disposable income? How ‘the world outside Harvest would be terrifying and confusing to him’? I know you have some stupid prejudice against small towns and country folk, but, Jesus—”  
  
“Take a fucking pill, Jer,” Casey says. “I was tipping the scales of justice in our favor. Making Eddie look weak and helpless earned him the judge’s sympathy. What do you think the glasses were for?”  
  
Jeremy stops, his anger temporarily paused by the question.  
  
“People see men wearing glasses as big fat nerds,” Casey explains. “In other words, less capable of violence. And the oversized jumpsuit made him look frail and small, like a victim rather than a perpetrator. All that talk about his lack of money was me giving the judge a way to strike a happy medium between both sides. Remanding bail makes the judge look like a dickhead, but if he thinks Eddie won’t be able to pay, where’s the harm in giving him bail? Plus, I’m on good terms with Judge Myers. Me and Angelo had a case before him a while back in Des Plaines.”  
  
“That was something my dad didn’t account for,” Mike says, as though realizing Casey’s strategy. “He might have the DA in his pocket, but Judge Myers is new around here, so Dad couldn’t completely stack the deck against us.”  
  
Casey gives a slight bow, as though he’s a performer on stage accepting accolades. “I’ve got a couple tricks up my sleeve.”  
  
“Then was throwing Eddie under the bus even necessary?” Jeremy asks, folding his arms over his chest.  
  
“I didn’t ‘throw him under the bus.’ I painted a picture that would help my client. You think Eddie gives a shit if it means he gets to sleep in his own bed tonight?” Casey studies Jeremy’s face for a moment. “This isn’t about you or your weird hang-ups, Jer.”  
  
It feels glaringly obvious now that Jeremy’s knee-jerk offense to Casey’s remarks stems from his own guilt about leaving Eddie alone. And it feels like Mike and Casey know this, too, which makes Jeremy want to crawl away and disappear.   
  
“Any reason you wanted us in here?” Casey says to Mike.  
  
“I want to post half of Eddie’s bail,” says Mike.  
  
“Are you allowed to do that?” Jeremy asks. “Being a cop?”  
  
“I’m not working on the case. It’d be more of an ethical conundrum if you posted his bail,” Mike says, looking at Casey.  
  
“Then I’ll do the second half,” Jeremy agrees. “It’s only fair.”  
  
Five-thousand dollars is a lot for Jeremy to cough up, but he’ll get it back at the end of the court proceedings. Eddie isn’t a flight risk, so Jeremy’s not worried about losing the money. And if Mike is willing to pay, Jeremy’s got no reason to flake out. This is the least he can do for his dearest friend.


	12. Chapter 12

Jeremy and Mike post Eddie’s bail that afternoon, and Eddie is released into their custody by evening. Casey has some sort of Legal Business to attend to, so he lets Jeremy and Eddie take his car back to the house.   
  
Outside of Eddie’s home are numerous parked cars and angry spectators. The crowd turns in a curious mass as Casey’s car rolls onto the property.  Mike and Detective Zebrowski, who have accompanied Jeremy and Casey in the police car, flash the lights and whoop the siren, trying to part the crowd like the Red Sea. The mob moves to let the cars pass. Eddie cowers in the back seat of the Oldsmobile, but they’ve seen him. Once the vehicle stops they descend like gnats, banging on the windows and pulling on the door handles.  
  
The vitriol comes in sharp bursts from thunderous faces, rage bubbling in their eyes:  
  
“Murderer!”   
  
“You bastard!”   
  
“How dare you!”  
  
Eddie wants to protest his innocence, but what would be the use? “I didn’t do it” is exactly what they’d expect him to say, and he is already guilty in their minds anyway. To see these familiar faces contorted with hate and disgust, all of it directed at him, is too much. How much can one person take before they just  _can’t_  anymore?  
  
Mike rolls down the driver’s window of the police car and hits the siren again. “Hey, hey!” he shouts into the crowd, getting their attention. “This is private property! Everyone go back to your homes!”  
  
A balding man, his face crimson with rage, shouts back, “He killed Pamela! He ought’a hang for what he’s done!”  
  
Affirmative cheers ring out from the crowd.  
  
“I know how upsetting it must be,” Mike says, “but we have to let the justice system work. If he’s guilty, the evidence will show it. And bail is still a privilege we endorse here in the US of A.”  
  
A female voice crows, “That’s bullshit! He’s guilty and you know it!”  
  
“Guys, I’m serious,” Mike says, his tone with a fierce ‘shut the fuck up’ edge. “Vigilantism will not be tolerated, and if anything happens to Mr. Lehrke or his property, I have my first pool of suspects right here. Clear the area, or I will have you arrested for trespassing.” He meets the onlookers’ gazes one by one until they look away and begin to disperse. The mob shuffles off, piling into their vehicles. Within minutes, Casey’s Oldsmobile and Eddie’s truck are the only remaining cars on the property. Mike and Zebrowski bid the three of them goodbye. The police car does a U-turn in the packed snow and heads for town.  
  
“Sorry about all that, Eddie,” Jeremy says with a tired sigh.   
  
“It’s not your fault,” Eddie says, but there’s no mistaking the about-to-cry waver in his voice.  
  
The dog greets Eddie when the front door opens. Eddie says, “It’s nice to see you too, fella,” and rubs the pooch’s ears.  
  
“Casey named him Patches while you were away,” Jeremy tells him. “You’re gone one day and he starts taking over.”  
  
Eddie doesn’t mind; it’s nice the pup has a proper name now, though it doesn’t exactly fit a dog with only one color in its fur. But the more Eddie thinks about it, the more he appreciates the off-kilter nature of the name. It’s a little ironic, like those towering gangsters nicknamed “Tiny” in old cartoons.  
  
Supper comes as a familiar comfort. Jeremy has made some kind of souped-up macaroni and cheese, and they eat together on the couch, where they cannot see the smeared red stain on the wood.   
  
“So,” Jeremy says, in that way of his when he’s trying to casually talk about something important, “Mike and Detective Zebrowski came over last night and did some sort of seance. We got confirmation the ghost is Isaac, and apparently he’s pissed off at me. So that’s nice.”  
  
Eddie can’t imagine why Isaac would want to hurt—or kill—Jeremy. Isaac might have been furious at the idea of his own brother being gay, but surely he wouldn’t blame Jeremy for that… Would he?  
  
“But according to them,” Jeremy says, “the house is ghost-free as long as we keep the doors and windows salted.”  
  
“Well, I got plenty of salt to keep the ghosts away,” says Eddie.  
  
“Yeah, thank God you’re a pack rat.” Jeremy blinks. “Wait,  _ghosts_? As in plural?”  
  
“Pamela got killed in this house, so she's probably floatin' around here too in spirit.”  
  
“Jesus Christ, twenty-four hours ago you didn't even believe in ghosts.”  
  
Eddie shrugs. “Funny how that works.”  
  
Around eleven, the house has gone quiet and still in the night. Eddie lies in his bed, his heart flapping in his chest like a fish out of water. When he closes his eyes, he sees red. He keeps them open.   
  
Cloaked in the now-unnerving darkness of his bedroom, Eddie tries not to think about Pamela, but he still hears those awful noises in his head. He still sees her bleeding out on his kitchen floor. That wretched puddle is stained into the wood. Someone tried to clean it up, but the after-effects of things like that never go away. Violence leaves its mark.  
  
He is too terrified to sleep. He thinks he sees a vague shape move out of the corner of his eye, and this frightens him enough to flee the bedroom. The door to Isaac’s room is ajar, and Jeremy and Casey's voices drift from inside. Eddie doesn't want to disturb them, but Jeremy has always been a comfort, and Eddie won't be able to sleep on his own. Not after everything that's happened today. Not after the shadow visitor he may or may not have seen in his room.  
  
Eddie knocks lightly on the door. Jeremy looks up at the entrance and smiles at him. “Come on in, Ed.”  
  
Eddie hesitates, waiting for Casey's approval before he barges in on them like this.  
  
Casey slides off the edge of the bed. “Why don't I give you guys some privacy?”  
  
“N—no, you don't have to leave.”  
  
“Don't worry about it. I'm turning in anyway. But I'm taking the dog for protection.” Casey whistles softly in Patches's direction. “C'mon, boy.” Patches rises from the floor rug and bounds up to Casey.   
  
“You don't need protection,” Jeremy says. “Just eat the ghost.”  
  
Casey fakes laughter and flips him off. “I'm not taking any chances.” He rubs Patches's head and leads the dog out of the room, grabbing his suitcase near the door on the way out. “You two have fun.”  
  
Jeremy’s sitting in the bed with the quilt draped over his crossed legs. “Hey. You holdin' up okay?”  
  
Eddie tries a smile. “Been better. Been a whole lot better.”  
  
“Yeah, I figured.” Jeremy pats the empty space next to him on the bed. “C'mere. Sit with me.”  
  
Eddie does, climbing next to him, and settles against Jeremy's arm. He's solid and warm and achingly familiar.  
  
“Everything's gonna be okay,” Jeremy assures him. “Between me and Casey, we'll keep you safe and out of prison.”  
  
“I don't wanna worry about that right now.” Tentatively, Eddie reaches for Jeremy's hand. Their fingers entwine, and Eddie's heart trembles.  “Do you think I'd like Chicago?”  
  
Jeremy looks surprised by Eddie's question. “I... I don't know. It's the total opposite of Harvest. It's crowded and noisy, and at night everything's lit up so much you can't see the stars. But the great part is you can be anybody there. It's so big and crowded no one has time to know everyone else's business. You can blend in. Disappear.”  
  
In the years since Jeremy left, Eddie has wondered what his life would have been like if he’d accepted Jeremy's invitation to join him someplace far away. If Eddie is completely honest with himself, if he ventures into that dark place in his soul to which he rarely goes, he felt tethered to Ma. But part of him knew leaving would crush her deeper than even Isaac's disappearance had. Without a body or evidence of foul play, it was easy to believe Isaac had simply run off. But if Eddie had abandoned her too...  
  
“And, like Casey said, the food is amazing,” Jeremy continues. “You haven't lived 'til you've had real Chicago deep-dish pizza.”  
  
“Maybe I could visit you sometime?”  
  
Jeremy's bleary face lights up at the question. “I'd really like that. You can stay at my apartment if you want.”  
  
“Won't it be awful crowded with the three of us?”  
  
“Two people and a dog isn't that crowded.”  
  
“No, I mean Casey. But now that you mention it, I guess I'd have to bring Patches too.”  
  
“Casey and I don't live together,” Jeremy says. “I gave him a key so he can come over when he wants. I don't like the idea of him being alone too long.”  
  
“You love him?”  
  
“Not like that,” Jeremy says, realizing that Eddie has misunderstood the situation. “It's not... He knows how important you are to me. He wouldn't...” He's tripping over his words, trying to justify himself.  
  
“Wouldn't what?”  
  
“He wouldn't be upset if something happened between us.”  
  
Eddie blushes at the mere suggestion. “You still sweet on me, Jer?”  
  
Now it’s Jeremy’s turn to blush. “Yeah, of course.” He turns his head towards Eddie, as if to kiss him. He has the ghost of a bottle on his breath.  
  
“You've been drinking,” Eddie points out. He hopes Jeremy wasn’t trying to be sneaky tonight at dinner by pouring his beer into an empty soda can like Eddie wouldn’t notice.  
  
Jeremy's expression flinches, and he pulls his head back.  
  
“Pa was mighty fond of the bottle too.” Eddie doesn't mean it to be cruel, but he can't stand seeing Jeremy fall prey to the same demons that claimed his own father.  
  
“I wonder if my dad found his way out,” Jeremy murmurs.  
  
Eddie squeezes Jeremy's fingers, which are still entwined with Eddie's own. “No harm in asking. Thanksgiving’s coming up real soon. He'd probably like to hear your voice.”  
  
“Shit, you're right.” Jeremy settles back against the pillows. “My mom and grandma too. They live in Cedar Pass now. I should make time for a visit,” he says, thinking out loud. “And maybe we could have Thanksgiving there. All of us. Together.”  
  
“I’d like that,” Eddie says with a small grin.  
  
Jeremy smiles back, settling against him.   
  
“I wish I'd gone with you,” Eddie admits. The words feel heavy and loud in the space between them. “I think about that every day, about what my life would be like if I hadn't stayed here.”  
  
Jeremy tips his head against Eddie's own. “You'd probably still be a mess. Wondering if you'd made the right choice by leaving.”  
  
“I guess we have to make the wrong ones first so we know what the right one is.”  
  
Jeremy looks at him with an unreadable expression. But Eddie doesn't look away, despite feeling flushed and hot. Jeremy moves in slowly, turning his head to capture Eddie's mouth underneath his own. His kiss has changed since he's been gone, his lips pressing and consuming, his tongue pulling. Eddie lets himself be taken along. He hums a soft noise against Jeremy's mouth, and his fingers reach up and pull at Jeremy's shirt to bring him closer.  
  
Jeremy doesn’t stop him. He's got one hand tangled in Eddie's hair, crushing him close, kissing Eddie so hard and deep he can barely breathe. Jeremy smells like soap and cheap booze, tastes like something forbidden. Eddie rises up to his knees, trying to alleviate some of the tension down below.  
  
“I've missed you so much,” Jeremy says when their mouths are their own again. His warm hands push underneath Eddie's flimsy flannel shirt, fingers leaving grooves of heat over his skin. Exhilaration breaks out across every pore. “I should have come back. Why didn't I come back?” Jeremy's voice wavers. His forehead drops against Eddie's ribs.   
  
Eddie tips Jeremy's head up to look at him. “It's okay. You're here now.” He smiles and goes in for a kiss, feeling wicked and daring and alive.  
  
It's just as nice as Eddie remembers. Jeremy takes off Eddie's shirt and lays him across the bed, dropping kisses over his pale chest and stomach. Eddie squirms, and Jeremy keeps going, stripping him down and mouthing at the tender skin of his inner thighs. The heat of his breath tickles. So does the bristle-like scruff dotting his jaw. Jeremy nips at Eddie's thighs, leaving a trail of candy-red bites on his skin, reminders of what they've done here. Eddie has never wanted anything like this, wanted something so much it hurts.  
  
The slick suction of Jeremy's mouth takes Eddie by surprise, and he gasps an embarrassingly loud noise into the silence. He bites his lip, afraid of how intense his desire has become, and of the wet heat around his cock. His fingers weave into Jeremy's hair, and Eddie just watches those soft lips work around the base of his dick. It is, by far, the dirtiest thing he's ever partaken in, and he sighs, allowing himself just this little window of time to feel good without inhibition or shame.  
  
Jeremy hums around him, and Eddie feels like a tuning fork being struck. He cries out before he can stop himself, and his hips lift off the bed without permission, as if there's more for Jeremy to take in. A deep ache roars to life in his belly, and Eddie's falling, flying, a blinding white supernova bursting behind his eyes. Jeremy lingers there between Eddie's legs, mouthing at his softening cock, and Eddie catches his breath.  
  
Later, they lie together under the blankets, Jeremy's head resting on Eddie's chest. Eddie smells the sweetness of Jeremy's hair, inhaling the scent as though he might fill himself with it. He has never felt so at peace.  
  
“Are you asleep?” Eddie asks in the tiniest voice, quiet enough not to wake him if he is indeed sleeping.  
  
Jeremy makes a sound of acknowledgment. “Just listening to your heart.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“It relaxes me.”  
  
“A little weird, but I'll let it slide.”   
  
Eddie feels the quirk of Jeremy's mouth against his skin. “You got no right calling anyone weird.”  
  
“Maybe I do, seeing as I know so much about it. You might say I'm an authority on the subject.”  
  
Jeremy huffs a quiet laugh, and they lie there for a while.  
  
“Hey, Jer?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I'm happy,” Eddie says, unable to hold back the smile spreading on his lips. “It's kinda scary.”  
  
“I know,” Jeremy murmurs, holding him tighter. “I am too.”


	13. Chapter 13

Patches's frantic barking wakes Jeremy up, and he flops out a hand at the dog's face, as though fumbling to shut off an alarm.   
  
Eddie stirs beside him, kicking off the blankets. “It's hot,” he mumbles, still half-asleep. A faint, acrid smell stings Jeremy's nose, and he coughs.  
  
Patches barks insistently and sort of jumps on Jeremy, two front paws clamoring against his arm. “Alright, Jesus,” Jeremy grumbles, forcing himself to sit up. He rubs his eyes, and the damn dog just won't  _shut up_ —  
  
There's a glow coming from outside the bedroom door. Sniffing thoughtfully, it dawns on Jeremy that the smell isn't rot. It's smoke.  
  
 _Oh, shit._  
  
“Eddie!” Jeremy shakes him awake. “Wake up! There's a fire! We have to go!” In the short gaps of silence between Patches's throaty barks, he can hear the crackle of the blaze as it consumes the wood.  
  
Eddie scrambles awake. Jeremy nearly falls on his face when his feet tangle in the twisted blankets. He grabs his jeans off the bedpost and half hops, half stumbles into them. Eddie's getting dressed just as coughing and heavy footsteps sound from nearby.   
  
Casey throws the door open. He’s wearing his jacket and jeans, and a sheen of sweat is stippled across his brow. His usually-perfect hair is misshapen by the pillow his head had no doubt been lying on just moments ago. In one hand is his suitcase, hastily packed, with the arm of a shirt hanging out of it. “C'mon, you idiots! Let's go!”   
  
Casey shuts the door behind him, trapping them inside the room. “The whole first floor is fucked,” he says. “We've gotta use the window.” He rushes over to the window and jerks the curtains aside. In the moonlight, Jeremy now sees putrid black smoke billowing through the cracks in the door.  
  
Jeremy yanks a sheet free from the bed and twists it into a makeshift escape rope. He anchors one end to the bedpost, tying it snugly. Casey opens the window, and Jeremy throws the other end of the sheet-rope over the ledge. “Eddie, you go first.”  
  
“What? No, I have to—”  
  
“You have to get the fuck out of here,” Jeremy finishes for him. “We'll be right behind you.”  
  
Casey tosses his suitcase out the window, zips up Jeremy's travel bag and does the same for it.  
  
“But it's not fair!”  Eddie protests, coughing as the toxic pollution seeps into his lungs. “You guys get to take your stuff! You're not losing anything! This place is all I have!”  
  
Jeremy’s eyes sting with sweat from the oven-blast heat of the flames closing in on the four of them. “I know your home is important to you, but if we don't leave right now we're gonna die. You and Casey go first, I'll toss Patches down—someone please fucking catch him—then it's my turn. No arguments.”  
  
From downstairs, something detaches from its moorings and hits the ground. The sound makes Eddie jump, and the fire’s destruction seems to drive home the severity of their predicament. Shaking, Eddie climbs out the window, using the sheet to rappel himself to the ground.  
  
The temperature inside the room rises slowly, even with the open window bringing fresh air inside. Black smoke spirals towards the ceiling in thick gusts. Casey coughs and makes a horrible choking sound. Jeremy pushes him closer to the window, urging him to follow Eddie's escape.  
  
Casey climbs out the window, his hands clutched around the sheet-rope. As he begins his descent, his pull on the sheet jerks the bed frame toward the window. For a moment Jeremy’s certain the bed will topple over.  
  
From behind the door, wood pops and crackles from the flames. The fire roars. Something else collapses.  
  
Smoke stings Jeremy's eyes and pollutes his lungs. How the hell is he going to get Patches out of here? He isn't too thrilled with the idea of throwing the poor animal out the window in hopes someone will catch him. Too many chances for shit to go south. But how else can he—  
  
An idea sparks in Jeremy's head. Once Casey's on the ground, Jeremy brings up the rope and ties it around Patches's middle, just tight enough to secure him for the ride down. He hefts the confused dog over the ledge and carefully sends him down, as though lowering a bucket into a well. Jeremy sticks his head out the window in a gasp for clean air. His throat feels like it's being stomped on. Is this how he’s going to die? Will he make it out the window in time, or will smoke inhalation claim him first?  
  
Casey unties Patches and sets him on the ground. Jeremy maneuvers his lead-like limbs over the ledge. In the darkness, he can see the radiant glow of the fire from within the house, and he nearly stumbles backwards once his feet touch the earth. Casey rights him, and they hurry to the Oldsmobile, packing everything and everyone inside in record time.  
  
Casey gets them on the road, pushing the accelerator. Jeremy shivers in the passenger seat. He can still smell the stench of smoke on his clothes, in his hair, on his skin. Eddie pets Patches to calm the dog down, though maybe it's helping both of them equally.  
  
“Everybody okay?” Casey asks.  
  
Jeremy coughs and rolls down the window to clear his lungs. He knows Eddie extinguished the fireplace after dinner, because he witnessed it. So what, then, ignited the blaze? Could an angry townsperson have torched the house?  
  
Leave the detective work for the fire department, Jeremy thinks.  
  
“What happens now?” Eddie wonders, sounding far away and dazed.  
  
“We get the firemen over to your place and figure out how the fire started,” Casey says. A small part of Jeremy admires how calm and level-headed Casey can be during a crisis. “Somebody doesn't like you.”  
  
Eddie makes the saddest face Jeremy's ever seen. Patches lays his head in Eddie's lap, perhaps sensing the need for comfort.  
  
They find a payphone and call in the fire. Detectives Parks and Zebrowski meet them at the scene, carrying travel mugs of coffee.  
  
“Well, well, well,” Zebrowski says, his breath turning to steam against the air. He glowers at Eddie. “How come every time something fucked up happens around here, you're involved?”  
  
“I reckon I'm just bad luck,” Eddie says.  
  
“Or you're covering something up. Something you don't want us to find.”  
  
“You guys already took pictures of the crime scene and collected evidence,” Casey cuts in. “This is just an unfortunate accident that, however suspicious it may seem to you, doesn't impede your investigation.”  
  
“ _Accident_.” Zebrowski scoffs the word. “This was no accident.” He takes a long swallow of coffee.   
  
“You’re right. You saw that angry mob outside this place,” Casey says. “My client gets charged with murder, then the next day his house burns down?”  
  
“People are generally good in this town,” Mike says, but something in his eyes tells Jeremy he’s not so sure. “I can see someone burning down the Lehrke farmhouse if it were empty, and maybe I can see someone looking to hurt Eddie too, but it wasn’t just him inside the house. And an arsonist would have known that.”  
  
“So if it’s not arson, then what?”  
  
Mike checks his watch, and the blood drains from his face.  
  
“Why, Michael, you look like you've seen a ghost,” Jeremy teases.  
  
Mike's expression shatters. Casey sees it too.  
  
Mike glances at Zebrowski. “What time did the call come in?”  
  
“3:33 a.m. Devil’s hour, baby!” Zebrowski throws up the horns and sing-songs a guitar solo.  
  
“You think this might have something to do with the ghost?” Casey asks.  
  
“What are the odds that less than a day after we perform a seance in a house it burns to the ground during the witching hour?” Mike shrugs, looks at the charred frame of the farmhouse and the swarm of firefighters and investigators. “But we should wait for an official word from those guys.”  
  
“Are they really gonna say it's a ghost?” Eddie wonders.  
  
Mike says, “Not in those exact terms. But if the source of the fire is 'mysterious' or 'unidentifiable,' something spooky is probably afoot.”  
  
“Or the investigators are bad at their jobs,” Zebrowski cuts in. “We're not dealing with fuckin' Scotland Yard here.”  
  
“But they’d be able to determine the cause of the fire if it wasn’t paranormal?” Casey asks.  
  
“Yeah,” Mike says. “There would be an ignition point, traces of accelerant. Even electrical fires leave clues.”  
  
“My house doesn’t have electricity,” Eddie says. “So it couldn’t be that.”  
  
Mike looks even more convinced that this is the work of a ghost. “Didn’t you guys salt the doors and windows?”  
  
“Would that have helped if the ghost was already inside the house?” Jeremy wonders.  
  
“Any time you opened a door or a window, he would’ve left. Then you salt it, that keeps him out. So it seems like he was just hanging out on the property since he couldn’t get back into the house.”  
  
Eddie wraps his arms around himself and sits on the chilled hood of the Oldsmobile. He's wearing sweatpants, a t-shirt with one of Jeremy's sweatshirts thrown over it, and a pair of Isaac's old boots. He is ridiculously under-dressed for a Wisconsin winter.  
  
Jeremy watches him with pity. “Guys, do we need to stick around here? 'Cause we don't have a place to stay, and Eddie doesn't have any real clothes.”  
  
Mike gives a sympathetic nod. “Call us when you get set up somewhere else. And be careful. None of this means the ghost is gone, but if you're far away from here he probably can't reach you.”  
  
“Why’s that?” asks Eddie.  
  
“Ghosts operate on electromagnetic frequencies, and most of the time they’re bound to a specific location. The further you are from that place, the harder it is for them to reach you.”  
  
“You need to call us if any sort of weird shit goes down,” Zebrowski says. “If a ghost starts fingering your butthole, you get on the phone and call Thomas Zebrowski, Harvest police detective and vocal occult enthusiast.”  
  
Mike’s expression twists in disgust. “It’s not the ghost of Aleister Crowley; it’s Eddie’s brother. Weirdo.” Mike sort of drags Zebrowski towards the epicenter of activity around the house. Not an easy feat, considering Zebrowski has the physique of an out-of-shape defensive lineman. “I'll see you guys,” Mike calls. “I hope you have a happy Thanksgiving, all things considering.”  
  
“Thanksgiving?” Casey wonders. “What day is it?”  
  
“It's Thanksgiving Eve,” Jeremy says with a sigh, joining Eddie on the hood of the car. He could sure as hell use a drink right now.   
  
“Holy shit. Time flies, huh?” Casey withdraws a black plastic comb from the pocket of his leather jacket and begins fussing with his hair. “Ed, you know of anyplace to stay around here? Maybe a Motel 6 or something?”  
  
“Harvest ain't much of a tourist trap, especially these days. Can't say I know of a place like that offhand. Never had much use for 'em. And if someone did this on purpose, we ought’a get out of town.”  
  
“Wait!” Jeremy says, an idea coming to life in his brain. “Eddie, remember what we talked about last night? I could call my mom and see if she and my grandma have room for us. My grandma's house is huge.”  
  
“They won't mind you bringing your gay harem along?” Casey says.  
  
“You're not my gay harem. You're my attorney, and Eddie's my best friend from back in the day. C'mon, Counselor, it's all about the spin.”  
  
Casey shrugs in indifferent surrender. “Anyplace with a heater and no ghosts is fine with me.”


	14. Chapter 14

_January 1973_  
  
As Jeremy stood in the kitchen, helping Mom unload the groceries from their Saturday shopping trip, he heard the screen door bang shut, then Mike’s voice chirped: “Hey, Jer! I brought you those Iron Man comics you wanted!”  
  
Mom turned around to face him. “Oh, Mike, good to see you!”   
  
Mike greeted her and joined them in the kitchen. He surveyed the items being pulled from bags and stored away. “What’s for dinner?”  
  
“Pork chops. You wanna stick around?” Jeremy asked.  
  
“Maybe. I’ll call my mom later and see what she thinks,” Mike says. “Is your dad home? I need a little help on my chemistry homework.”  
  
Jeremy frowned. “I can help.”  
  
“I know, but your dad’s an expert.”  
  
“Peter’s schedule is, shall we say, unpredictable as of late,” Mom said with an edge in her voice. “But Jeremy will be happy to help you with your homework. Isn’t that right?” She gave Jeremy a pointed look.  
  
“Yeah, sure.”  
  
Later, they went upstairs to Jeremy’s room. Mike had brought some records along with the comics, so they listened to Deep Purple and Led Zeppelin while Jeremy helped Mike with the chemistry homework. Jeremy’s idea of homework help was to simply let Mike copy his answers, which Mike had zero problems with, since that gave them more time to talk and read comic books.   
  
“Are you really leaving after graduation?” Mike wondered.  
  
“Why not? There’s nothing here.”  
  
“What about Eddie?”  
  
Jeremy felt a lump in his throat, pushed past it. “I just have to get out of here.” He didn’t feel like confessing to Mike about his crush on Eddie. Even though Jeremy felt it was obvious, Mike hadn’t brought it up yet, so Jeremy wasn’t going to broach the subject himself. Maybe Mike wouldn’t want to be friends anymore if he knew Jeremy was gay. Best to leave that alone for now.  
  
“Where will you go?”  
  
“Chicago, probably. But I kinda want to travel around first. See the world, y’know? Or at least a couple states.”  
  
“Sounds like you’re trying to outrun something,” Mike said with care, like he wasn’t sure if that statement would offend Jeremy.  
  
Jeremy shrugged. “Maybe. But so what?”  
  
Mike didn’t have an answer for that, so he didn’t respond.   
  
A little while later, Dad came home. Jeremy knew that because ‘Highway Star’ suddenly skipped, and his records only skipped when a door slammed. Mike knew it too, and he moved for the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the driveway. “I think your dad’s home.”  
  
“Yeah.” Jeremy turned the page of a comic book, not bothering to look up.  
  
“Is something going on? Our moms talk to each other a lot, and from what I’ve heard it doesn’t sound like they’re having a good time at home.”  
  
“I’ll show you.” Jeremy led Mike down the stairs. Mom and Dad were already engaged in a rather heated discussion, either in the living room or the kitchen.  
  
“How are we supposed to make this work if you can’t hold yourself together?” Mom hissed. Jeremy stuck an arm out to block Mike from descending further down the stairs. He wanted Mike to hear this, and he didn’t want them being spotted.  
  
Dad gave an aggrieved sigh. “It’s just a couple drinks. It helps me concentrate.”  
  
“Oh? Is that why I’ve been getting calls from that man at the university about your performance? You show up late and drunk to work, Peter! You’re going to get fired, and then where will we be?”  
  
“You got us into this!” Dad growled. “Never forget that.”  
  
“I remember it every goddamn day,” Mom said with a sob. “But what’s done is done. We have to make the best of it.”  
  
Jeremy wondered if they were referring to him, if he was a mistake that wrecked his parents’ marriage. He didn’t think he was—Mom and Dad had seemed happy for years—but maybe they’d just gotten worse at hiding their arguments. The facade was cracking, and they no longer cared to mend it.  
  
“Still want to stay for dinner?” Jeremy asked Mike in a whisper.  
  


* * *

 _November 1980_  
  
As they drive through Cedar Pass, colorful banners and decorations commemorate the upcoming holidays. Connected to Harvest through the same highway off which Isaac’s remains were buried, Cedar Pass seems metropolitan in comparison. Jeremy’s mother and grandmother live in a two-story yellow house in a small Cedar Pass community. On a street lined with multiple houses, it’s a far cry from Eddie’s expansive, isolated property. Bare skeletons of trees proudly line the front yards of each house on the block, and Jeremy remembers how the green and red foliage looked during his autumn trips here in his youth. Thanksgiving at Grandma’s house was a family ritual, remaining unbroken until the Stone family broke first.  
  
A light trickle of snowflakes descends from the dark sky. Jeremy feels an acute longing for the past as the Oldsmobile parks along the curb. He lingers in the driver’s seat for a moment.  
  
Casey nudges him from the back seat. “Are we going inside, or are you just gonna stare like a creeper?”  
  
Jeremy shakes off the wave of nostalgia and exits the car.  
  
Mom greets the three of them when the door opens. “There you are! It’s so good to see you again, honey!” She pulls Jeremy into a tight hug, and until now he never really understood how much he loves his mother. “Oh, you smell like smoke,” she says, reminded of their plight. “Eddie, dear, how are you holding up?”  
  
“Been better, ma’am,” Eddie says. He reaches to remove his cap but remembers he isn’t wearing one. “Thank you for letting us stay. And sorry to barge in on you so early.”  
  
“Don’t worry about it. It’s the least I can do for family.” Mom sees Casey standing behind the other two. “And you must be the lawyer Jeremy told me about. Casey, is it?”  
  
“That’s right, ma’am.”  
  
“None of this ma’am business, you two. It’s so formal! Just call me Linda.”  
  
Patches trots up to Mom and gives her a cursory sniff.  
  
“Oh, what a beautiful dog!” Mom rubs his head, scratches him behind the ears. Patches opens his mouth with a wide smile. “What’s your name, dear?”  
  
“Patches,” Eddie tells her. “Jeremy found him injured a couple days ago. Didn’t seem right to leave him out in the wild.”  
  
“Well, he’s certainly welcome here. Jeremy wanted a dog when he was younger, but Peter was allergic.”  
  
She lets them inside, and they shed their coats onto the coat rack in the foyer. The house is dimly lit and warm, a stark contrast to Eddie’s dark and chilly abode. Even Eddie seems pleased to be inside a home with electricity and central heating. The interior is the same as Jeremy remembers it: timber paneling and floors, a stone fireplace, and playful decor featuring various woodland and barnyard animals. It feels like stepping into a 19th-century country cabin.  
  
Grandma’s sitting at the dining table, drinking a cup of tea. She’s wearing a floral-pattered robe over a pink nightgown. She rises from her chair and gives Jeremy a welcoming hug. “Good to see you, sweet-pea.” She moves on to Eddie, cupping his face in her wrinkled hands. “It’s truly sad what happened to your home. You’re more than welcome to stay as long as you need.”  
  
Eddie nods. “Thank you. I promise I won’t be any trouble.”  
  
“From what I’ve heard about you, I’m sure you’ll be no trouble at all.”  
  
Mom shows Casey and Eddie to the upstairs guest rooms where they almost immediately retire, but Jeremy sticks around downstairs, still too wired to sleep. Patches is curled up on the kitchen mat, watching the three of them sitting at the table. Jeremy sips at a cup of chamomile tea, as per Grandma’s encouragement (”it’ll help you sleep”), though he doubts anything but pure bone-tired exhaustion will do the trick.  
  
“I hope we’re not intruding on your plans for the holidays,” Jeremy says, apologetic again. He’d expressed his remorse earlier when he’d roused Mom from her sleep with the phone call and asked for hospitality, but he figures it bears repeating. He doesn’t want to be seen as a freeloader, or someone who just barges in without consideration for anyone else’s time.  
  
“You’re my son. You’re not intruding,” Mom insists. “I couldn’t be happier that you’re here, though I wish it was under better circumstances.”  
  
“I’ll repay you both by doing all the cooking tomorrow.”  
  
Grandma smiles. “What a treat! You’re a chef now, aren’t you?”  
  
“I am. Which means you’re gonna have a pretty great Thanksgiving. I can go shopping later and grab some extra stuff. But I don’t want you two to worry about preparing anything. Just leave it to me.”  
  
“That’s very sweet of you,” Grandma says.  
  
“Yeah, well, you’re family. And Eddie deserves a good Thanksgiving, too.”  
  
“You’re a good friend,” says Mom, patting Jeremy’s hand. “He’s lucky to have you.”  
  
Jeremy tries not to think about how Eddie’s life may have turned out if he didn’t have a friend in his early years. A shudder runs through him.  
  
“Since we’re talking about Thanksgiving,” Mom says, like she’s circling a topic she’s nervous about, “I want to get your opinion on something. How would you feel if I invited your father to come up and spend the holiday with us?”  
  
If Mom’s expecting Jeremy to flip the table and denounce his father, or some other equally theatric reaction, she doesn’t get it. He says, “You’re okay with that?”  
  
“Your father went to a dark place where I couldn't follow, but that doesn’t mean I stopped loving him,” Mom says. “We both agreed living separately was for the best.”   
  
Jeremy remembers hearing this explanation before, back when his parents split after he’d moved out. Dad moved to Milwaukee after Jeremy graduated high school, and Mom stayed in the family home until moving in with her aging mother two years ago.  
  
“We’ve started seeing each other again,” Mom admits with an edge of nerves. “Reconnecting, I suppose you’d call it. I want the two of us to start over.”  
  
“Really?” Jeremy wonders how to phrase this without coming off like a dick. “Even after what he did?”  
  
“He made a mistake. I don’t think it’s fair to ruin his life over it.”  
  
“No, he did all that on his own.”  
  
Mom gives Jeremy a warning look. “I did my part, too. Things like this don’t just happen for no reason. But I’ve made my peace with it, and I forgive him.”  
  
Mom never got remarried after the separation, and she never mentioned any other romantic pursuits over the years. One one hand, Jeremy wants his mother to be happy and, most of all, not to be lonely. But he doesn’t relish the idea of her going back to a man who’s already cheated on her once before.  
  
Grandma finishes her tea and pushes away from the table. “I think it’s time for me to retire.” She rises, plants a kiss on the top of Jeremy’s head as she passes him. “Good night. See you both in the morning.”  
  
Jeremy glances at the clock on the wall. 5:47 am. It’s already morning, but he doesn’t correct her. Semantics is Casey’s job. He bids her good night and takes another swallow of tea.   
  
After Grandma’s made it up the creaky wooden stairs, Mom leans in and says, “I understand you may not have forgiven your father. If you don’t want him here, I won’t invite him.”  
  
Aside from the occasional birthday and Christmas card, Jeremy doesn’t really correspond with his father. He isn’t sure why; Dad was never abusive or cruel or even negligent during Jeremy’s childhood. But his descent into alcoholism during the last few months of Jeremy’s high school tenure cast a shadow over him. Jeremy felt like that was a cop-out, a way for Dad to look shamed and guilty without actually talking about his emotions or admitting wrongdoing. ‘Look how tortured I am,’ it seemed to say, preying on Mom’s pity and desire to keep her family together.  
  
Since then, Jeremy has never been quite able to separate the pathetic, cheating drunk from the intelligent, caring father he’d known his entire life. And, if he’s honest with himself, he never truly forgave Dad for cheating on Mom.  
  
But the theme of this return to Harvest seems to be reconciling the past, so maybe Jeremy should try to make peace with this part of it.  
  
“You don’t need my permission to invite him. I haven’t seen Dad in a while. Maybe he’s done well for himself.”   
  
Mom nods, a small smile forming at the corners of her mouth. “Can I ask what you’re doing with a lawyer?”  
  
For a brief moment, Jeremy wonders if Mom knows about his and Casey’s no-strings-attached physical relationship. But then he remembers Mom doesn’t judge his sexual proclivities; as long as he’s safe and happy, that’s good enough for her. “He’s not here for me. He’s here for Eddie.”  
  
Mom’s brow creases in worry, as though her worst fears about Eddie have been confirmed. “What’s he need a lawyer for? The fire?”  
  
Jeremy shakes his head and fills her in on as much of Eddie’s legal predicaments as he can without mentioning anything about ghosts.   
  
When he finishes, Mom says, “Oh my Lord,” resting a hand over her heart in astonishment. “That poor boy.” Her bottom lip trembles. Then her hands clench into fists on the dining table. “I wish I’d taken him away from that rotten woman when I had the chance.”  
  
“I think that’s called kidnapping.”  
  
“She brainwashed him. I don’t believe for a second that he killed Isaac. She probably did it herself, and he’s covering for her.”  
  
“I think you’ve been watching too many episodes of Columbo,” Jeremy says, but part of him shares his mother’s theory.  
  
“Who else besides his mother would have a motive?”  
  
Jeremy lets loose a deep breath. “I don’t know. Unless it was a wrong place, wrong time sort of thing.”  
  
“Are the cops looking into it now that the body’s been discovered?”  
  
“Yeah, Casey and I are riding them pretty hard.” Poor choice of phrasing there, but Jeremy pushes on. “One of the detectives on the case is Mike Parks. Remember him?”  
  
Mom smiles. “Oh, yes, I do. You brought him over to the house a few times, didn’t you? I liked him. I liked all your friends, really. Somehow I never worried about you falling in with the wrong crowd.”  
  
“To be fair, it’s Harvest, Wisconsin. Not the most dangerous place.”  _Unless you’re an older woman in Eddie Lehrke’s house_ , Jeremy thinks.  
  
“What about that woman? Pamela, was it?”  
  
Jeremy ponders how to explain without mentioning the paranormal circumstances of the murder. Luckily, he didn’t tell Mom that Pamela was killed in Eddie’s house. “That’s the murder Eddie’s charged with. Casey seems confident things’ll turn out fine, but I’m really worried.”  
  
Mom lays a hand on Jeremy’s arm. “It’s late, sweetie. Why don’t you go get some rest? It’s been a stressful day.”  
  
“And the day’s only just started.”  
  
After Mom goes to bed, Jeremy quietly searches the refrigerator for even just a drop of alcohol. He finds pickles, mustard and mayonnaise, eggs, milk, and a few plastic containers of various leftovers, but no beer or wine. Figured as much. After what happened with Dad, Mom probably wouldn’t keep liquor in the house.   
  
There are other places Jeremy could search here, but he doesn’t want to risk waking Mom or Grandma in his quest for a drink. Instead, he goes upstairs and enters the guest room where Eddie lies fast asleep. He slips wordlessly beneath the thick quilt and joins him in the bed. Eddie makes a soft noise in his sleep, turning onto his side and cuddling closer. Jeremy stares at the ceiling until exhaustion sweeps him away.


	15. Chapter 15

It's a clear, crisp winter morning, the kind that seems to demand staying inside, bundling up in sweaters and scarves and drinking hot chocolate by the fire. Driving along Highway 73 out of Harvest, the familiar scenery is shrouded with early morning fog. Everything is grey, as though someone jerked down the saturation knob on a television set.   
  
Detectives Mike Parks and Thomas Zebrowski roll past acres of undeveloped land on their way to Wisconsin Rapids. A thick canopy of snow covers the plains sandwiching the highway. Clumps of powdery white cling to the gnarled branches of the barren trees. A few houses dot the frosted landscape, belonging to farmers harvesting on the land.   
  
In the passenger seat of Mike’s police car, Zebrowski chugs coffee and devours donuts. Mike would remind him not to get crumbs on the seats, but it’s a moot point by now. “How come we’re just now finding this out?” Zebrowski’s saying. “Did no one seriously look into this? Did the small-town cops really live up to the stereotype and bungle the investigation?”  
  
They’re chasing down a lead that Mike tracked down regarding Isaac’s disappearance. Back when Isaac vanished, no one bothered to look for his mode of transportation, but Mike has scrounged around and located a vehicle matching the description of Isaac’s truck.  
  
“Well, when Isaac went missing, there wasn’t much of a reason to investigate,” Mike says, one hand waving off the wheel. “He was legally an adult, and there were no signs of foul play. Eddie told the police he saw Isaac get in his truck and drive off. The truck was never discovered in a ditch or smashed up along the highway or anything like that, so they wrote him off as a runaway. And the town’s opinion of Mary didn’t help either. See, Harvest despised Mary ‘cause of her sanctimonious opinions and her disapproval of most—if not all—the women in town. You can bet the police didn’t take too kindly to hearing her badmouth their wives and daughters and sisters. Everybody knew she taught her boys the same ideology, so they figured Isaac got lucky and managed to escape. Nobody wanted to be the guy to drag him back.”  
  
“How old were you when he disappeared?” There are glaze crumbs and colorful sprinkles caught in Zebrowski’s majestic ginger beard, and Mike wants to reach out and brush them away.  
  
“Oh, I was about the same age as Eddie and Jeremy. So maybe seventeen, eighteen. Somewhere around there. And honestly, I thought he ran away too. I’d run away if I was him. And the idea of someone murdering him was just… We never had anything like that in Harvest before, so it never crossed my mind.”  
  
Zebrowski says, “If you had someone like me back then screaming about the extraterrestrial agenda and how aliens helped our government learn to time travel, that investigation would’a been fast-tracked.”  
  
“How did you pass the psychological exam to even be on the force?”  
  
“Because I know how to hide the crazy. You don’t break that shit out on the first date.  You gotta ease into it.”  
  
Just outside of Wisconsin Rapids lies a salvage yard operated by a person of interest. They pull into the yard, driving through the open gate. Inside are rows of stacked, wrecked cars. Some are newer, some are so rusted no color is discernable. Further inside lies a medium-size house, grey with cedar accents and a gable roof.   
  
Mike stops the car, dust pluming like the aftermath of a bomb as the tires halt on the dirt. He and Zebrowski head to the front door and knock.  
  
“Ben Ripley? Harvest PD. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”  
  
The door opens after a moment, and the tallest human being Mike has ever seen off a basketball court appears in the doorway. He’s wearing faded, ripped jeans and a plaid shirt, his hair messy and red.  
  
Zebrowski chokes on a surprised noise. “Kareem Abdul-Jabbar? You’re a lot… whiter in person.”  
  
Ben Ripley sighs like a man who has suffered fools far too long. “If I had a nickel for every tall joke.”  
  
“You’d have a mountain of nickels as tall as you?” To be fair, Zebrowski just barely meets the man’s shoulders in height.  
  
Mike slaps a hand over Zebrowski’s mouth. “I’m Detective Mike Parks from Harvest. This is my partner Detective Zebrowski. You’ll have to excuse him; he still has two wishes to grant before we let him go.”  
  
From behind Mike’s hand, Zebrowski squawks a muffled, “I’m not a goddamn leprechaun!”  
  
Ben smirks, his mouth tugging up at the corner. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”  
  
Mike lets go of Zebrowski, who graciously stays silent. “We’re here about a car. More specifically, a truck. A 1940 Ford pickup.” Mike rattles off the license plate number from memory. “Think you can help us with that?”  
  
“I’ll have to check my records. Why don’t you come inside while I have a look?” Ben opens the door a little wider so Mike and Zebrowski can slip inside. The house interior is cluttered with books piled in stacks on every horizontal surface. He leads them into the main room, which overflows with plastic cubes containing various folders and paperwork.   
  
“I’d apologize for the mess, but something tells me I’m not the worst you’ve seen,” Ben says, lifting one of the cubes onto a nearby wooden desk. He begins flipping through the paperwork with intent.  
  
“I get it, man. My place looks like a warzone,” Zebrowski says.  
  
“Can I ask what you guys are investigating?” asks Ben.  
  
No reason to play coy. “A missing persons case from about eight years back just became a homicide investigation.”  
  
“Eight years ago? Jeez, you two were probably fresh out of the academy back then, huh?”  
  
“Not quite,” Mike says. His time with the Harvest PD stretches back four years; Zebrowski only two.  
  
“You guys want a drink or anything?” Ben offers.  
  
“We’re fine, thanks.” Mike opts to take a seat on the red sofa by the wall. Zebrowski chooses to stand, arms folded over his chest as though remaining upright is some great inconvenience.  
  
“A-ha!” Ben withdraws a file from his archives and opens up the folder. “Here you go.” He crosses the floor, hands Mike the file.  
  
Mike scans the pages. The registered owner is listed as Isaac himself, and Mike is momentarily disappointed, having held out the smallest unspoken hope than finding Isaac’s killer would be that easy. But the date of sale is listed as the same day as Isaac’s disappearance. So it’s likely he was killed then, too.   
  
Mike asks, “Did you by chance match a photo ID on this one?”  
  
Ben looks momentarily embarrassed by the question. “Back then you took people on their word. I’m not running a dealership here. It’s a scrap yard, sort of a garbage dump for cars people can’t sell.”  
  
Mike does the math in his head. Ben doesn’t look much older than either of them, which means he would have been too young to run a place like this by himself eight years ago. “Do you remember who made the sale?”  
  
“Pretty sure it was me.” Ben studies the papers himself. “Yeah, it was me, ‘cause my parents were out of town on a business trip, so I stayed here to keep an eye on the place.”  
  
Ben’s earlier embarrassment makes more sense now; if he had been manning the scrap yard alone, he may not have wanted to challenge someone trying to unload a stolen vehicle.    
  
“You remember who sold you the truck?” Zebrowski asks.  
  
Mike thinks that’s a long shot. It’s been almost a decade. Memories fade, change, and vanish altogether. If Ben’s interaction with the seller wasn’t particularly memorable, they could be looking at a dead end here.  
  
Ben rubs his chin. “Older guy, maybe forties, fifties. White. He might’ve had glasses. Maybe. I don’t really remember too much. It was a long time ago.”  
  
“Great, we’ll be on the lookout for an old white guy in Harvest,” Zebrowski snorts.  
  
“You don’t happen to still have the truck here, do you?” Mike asks.  
  
“You can go take a look around the yard if you want.” Ben seems like he’s going to say something more, but he stops. Then: “Wait, are you looking for this guy ‘cause he killed somebody?” Anguish fills his eyes, fear that he might be culpable in a crime.  
  
“Right now we can’t say with any certainty. We’re just tracking down leads right now.” Mike rises from the sofa. “Mind if we take a look?”  
  
Ben gestures to the back door leading out to the salvage yard. “Be my guest.”  
  
Mike and Zebrowski head outside and browse through the rows of cars, searching for Isaac’s pickup. Further in the distance to the right is a metal shack with stacks of tires and other dismantled auto pieces lined up outside.  
  
“When are you going to consider Jeremy as a suspect here?” Zebrowski asks. “Why do you think he left town as soon as he could? Why do you think he’s never come back until now?”  
  
Mike tries to argue, but he doesn’t have a good explanation for either of those questions. He digs in his heels into the dirt. “Then why did Ben remember seeing someone much older than Jeremy?”  
  
“Because Jeremy knew if he tried to sell the car himself he’d raise suspicion. He probably wasn’t even old enough to own a car back then, so he got someone else to do it.”  
  
Mike shakes his head. “You’re an idiot. Why would he even want to kill Isaac in the first place?”  
  
“You heard Eddie’s confession. They argued about something—let’s say a girl—maybe Eddie mentions Jeremy’s interested in this chick, so Isaac goes to talk to him. They argue—blam!—Jeremy knocks him out a little too hard, and now he has to deal with the body. Or maybe all of what Eddie told us is bullshit because he’s covering for Jeremy. Remember, Jeremy was the first and only person Eddie called when we took him to the station.”  
  
“Because he doesn’t know anyone else!” Mike volleys back. He pauses, reeling from the theory Zebrowski has presented. Eddie’s always been the town oddball, but Jeremy was weird too. There’s a reason the three of them had a connection, why they couldn’t seem to make that connection with anyone else at Cedar Pass High. A bit of social ostracization doesn’t equal a killer, but it’s something to ponder, at least.  
  
 _Son, one day you’ll learn that you can never truly know anyone._  
  
Seeing that Mike isn’t entirely convinced, Zebrowski adds, “Why does Isaac’s ghost want to turn Jeremy into a skin suit?”  
  
That’s one of the strangest pieces in this entire puzzle. It’s impossible to deny Jeremy’s connected to this in some way; Mike just can’t figure out how.  
  
“Look, why don’t we just find the car, then we come back with a photo of Fred Wilson, who is at this point our most viable suspect. Maybe Ben will recognize him.”  
  
Zebrowski throws his hands up like talking with Mike is exhausting. “I’m just saying.”  
  
“Yeah, well, don’t, okay?”  
  
They don’t find the truck, much to Mike’s dismay. He’d hoped they might find a tangible clue as to Isaac’s killer, something concrete that could lead to an arrest and give Eddie a sense of relief. Mike doesn’t much believe in closure, but sometimes you need to know the answers. Maybe you can live with the pain, but not knowing eats at your bones.  
  
As they head back inside the house, Ben says, “Hey, y’know, I was thinking about that day, and I remembered something else about the guy who sold me the truck. I’m pretty sure he was drunk. He smelled like booze. He used my phone to call a cab after he sold me the truck. There were a few unopened beers in there too, and I got to drink ‘em. So that’s kinda fun.”  
  
“Thanks for your help,” Mike says. “We’ll be in touch.”


	16. Chapter 16

Dad arrives at noon on Thanksgiving, just as Jeremy and Mom are setting the table. He’s standing alone on the doorstep, his light thinning hair combed back. His jaw is freckled with the beginnings of stubble, but it works on him, rather than making him look unkempt. He’s aged a bit since Jeremy saw him last. Looking at his father, Jeremy is stricken by the fleeting nature of time, and he pulls Dad into a hug.  
  
“It’s good to see you,” Jeremy says, and he means it. “Glad you could make it.” If Jeremy knows his father, he’s probably nervous about his presence here and what it means, unsure if the initial awkwardness is worth breaking his wayward tendencies when it comes to family. Might as well make it easier for him.  
  
Dad steps back and looks at Jeremy, as though assessing how his son has changed in the years gone by. “You look tired.”  
  
Jeremy half-smiles. “It’s been a crazy week.”  
  
“So I’ve heard.”  
  
It’s unlikely Dad’s been keeping up with the Harvest news while in Milwaukee, so Mom probably filled him in on recent events.  
  
“Then it’ll be nice to have a bit of normalcy, don’t you think?” says Jeremy.  
  
They make it to the dining room, where Casey and Eddie are happily setting the table in Jeremy’s absence.   
  
Jeremy says, “Eddie, you remember my dad.”  
  
Eddie smiles in recognition. “I do. Real nice to see you again, Mr. Stone.”  
  
Dad nods stiffly. “Eddie. How’ve you been?”  
  
“Been better. But been a whole lot worse too.” He shrugs simply, setting a basket of buttery biscuits onto the table. “Hard to focus too much on your troubles when you’re with friends.”  
  
Mom greets Dad with a warm embrace that lasts longer than usual. Seeing his parents together again after so long gets Jeremy a little misty-eyed.  
  
Casey looks at Jeremy and snorts a laugh. “Are you crying?”  
  
“Shut up,” Jeremy grumbles.  
  
“He’s always been an emotional boy,” Grandma says, patting Casey’s shoulder.  
  
“I’m not crying,” Jeremy insists, but if he’s the one being ribbed for his tears instead of Eddie, he doesn’t much mind the teasing. He can take it.  
  
The six of them sit at the table, with Patches banished to the living room as to not irritate Dad’s allergies. The dog watches them from the couch with sad eyes. They say grace and begin to dole out heaping servings of food from the various platters spread across the table. Jeremy has created a veritable feast of food: beer-brined turkey, glazed sweet potatoes, buttermilk macaroni and cheese, green bean casserole, cornbread biscuits, mushroom stuffing, and pumpkin cake with caramel sauce and candied pecans for dessert.  
  
Naturally, everyone’s a little overwhelmed.  
  
“You made all this?” Dad asks, incredulous.  
  
“With a little help, yeah. These two”—Jeremy points at Casey and Eddie with his fork—“couldn’t resist chipping in.”  
  
“It wouldn’t be fair to make you do all the work yourself,” Eddie says. “Ma always said if you didn’t lend a hand, you didn’t deserve to reap the benefits.”  
  
“Wise words from Ilsa, She-Wolf of the S.S.,” Casey mutters around a bite of potatoes.  
  
Jeremy chokes on his cola, taken aback by the audacity of Casey’s joke, and a bit fearful of Eddie’s response.  
  
But Eddie doesn’t take offense. “Interesting lady, that Ilsa. Y’know she had lampshades and bookbindings made out of human skin?”  
  
“Jesus, Eddie,” Jeremy sighs. He remembers how shy and reticent Eddie had been during his first dinner with the Stone family. How things change. “Maybe save that conversation for Parks and Zebrowski.”  
  
“Or don’t,” Casey adds. “You’re still my client, kid, and I can’t have you talking to the cops without me.”  
  
“You’re a lawyer?” Dad asks Casey, intrigued.  
  
“That’s right. Got my own practice back in Chicago: the law offices of Hanley and Zuccarelli. We’ve won some pretty big cases.”  
  
“Yeah, big cases locally. Outside of Chicago, no one cares,” Jeremy says  
  
Casey makes his angry-pouty face he uses when Jeremy teases him. “Which is why I took the Wisconsin bar exam. Might as well expand the client pool since we’re neighbors.”  
  
Eddie just listens to them talk, contentedly nibbling at biscuits and macaroni.  
  
“What kind of cases have you taken?” Dad wonders.  
  
“All sorts of stuff. But it’s not as glamorous as Perry Mason makes it look. Most cases get resolved out of court and don’t even see trial.” Casey shoves a forkful of stuffing into his mouth. “But, I get it, you wanna hear about the exciting stuff. There was that mafia guy who picked us ‘cause my partner Angelo is Italian. He went to prison, but we kept him off death row. So that’s a win in our book. Then there was a woman who killed her abusive husband. That one got a lot of press. We couldn’t prove her not guilty—’cause, y’know, she did it—but we negotiated the sentence down to something agreeable.”  
  
Dad eyes Casey with something bordering suspicion. “Do you ever refuse a client? Is someone ever too vile to defend?”  
  
Casey chews that over. “It depends. I have a hard time remaining impartial on cases involving children, so I don’t take those anymore.”  
  
 _Anymore_. The word seems to hint at something darker and deeper. Dad doesn’t ask the follow-up question.  
  
“But enough about me,” Casey says. “What’s goin’ on with you, big guy?”  
  
Jeremy has never heard his father referred to as “big guy,” and it’s a little weird, but that’s just how Casey is. He possesses an innate charm that equally disarms and endears people to him. He can manipulate conversations, diverting them in the way he wants them to go without the other person even noticing the misdirection.   
  
Dad looks flustered with the conversational spotlight pointing on him. He pokes at the food on his plate. “I, um, I teach at UWM now. Chemistry.”  
  
“Ah, a smart guy. Any special lady in your life? Or special guy. I don’t judge.”  
  
Jeremy wants to slide away from the table and disappear. He wishes he’d briefed Casey on Dad and Mom’s arrangement earlier.  
  
“And I don’t kiss and tell,” Dad says.  
  
A pang of resentment grabs hold of Jeremy.  
  
Dad continues, “And work keeps me plenty busy.”  
  
“Well, hang in there, champ,” Casey says.  
  
Jeremy wants to remind Casey he’s talking to a grown man and not an eight-year-old boy whose team lost the Little League game, but he keeps his mouth shut.  
  
After dinner, Jeremy breaks for the fridge while everyone else sits around the TV for the Cowboys vs. Seahawks game. The fridge is stocked full from Jeremy’s trip to the store yesterday, and he bought himself a six-pack. As he’s reaching for a beer, another hand joins his own.  
  
“Oh. Dad.” Jeremy pulls back, seeing his father.  
  
Dad mirrors Jeremy’s timidity, withdrawing his own hand, and they just sort of stare at each other, waiting for someone to give up and reach for the fucking beer already. But Dad breaks first, sticking an arm into the fridge and grabbing a cold can. “You did a damn fine job with dinner.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“I’m proud of you.”  
  
“It’s just food.”  
  
“I mean in a broader sense. You went out on your own and found success. That’s not easy.”  
  
Jeremy isn’t sure how to respond to this. Dad doesn’t often make explicit statements of pride or love regarding his son. A pat on the shoulder and a nod were pretty much all he had in his repertoire of congratulations. To hear him speak his emotions so openly is a little unnerving.  
  
“It was sort of easy,” Jeremy says, shrugging off the approval he feels he doesn’t deserve. “I mostly just stumbled into it.”  
  
“That doesn’t make me any less proud.”  
  
Jeremy’s never done anything good in his life. Praise makes him uncomfortable, but he doesn’t want Dad feeling brushed off or his appreciation diminished. “Well, thanks,” he says. “So… you and Mom… again?”  
  
Dad doesn’t seem surprised that Jeremy knows this. “We’re taking things slowly. She needs time.”  
  
“Don’t hurt her again.”  
  
“Your mother’s much stronger than you give her credit for.”  
  
“Because she had to be.”  
  
Dad sighs. “We’ve made our peace with each other. She’s forgiven me, at least the best she can.” Before Jeremy can protest, Dad says, “Forgiveness doesn’t mean everything is okay. It just means those bad things don’t control our lives anymore.”  
  
Jeremy decides not to go for the beer. He joins Eddie and Casey on one side of the massive couch. Being here with his two favorite people in the world fills him with an odd calm, a sense of peace he’s never found anywhere else.  
  
Dad sits in the armchair beside the couch, as though this physical separation from the rest of them means his spirit is detached, too.   
  
“Eddie, dear,” Mom says, placing a hand over his own. “Did you have a memorial for your brother yet?”  
  
Eddie makes his thinking face. “No, they haven’t said anything to me about that. It’d be nice to put him to rest after so long.”  
  
“Well, if you need any help with the arrangements, let me know, okay? Sometimes these things get expensive.”  
  
Eddie’s eyes widen. “Oh no, ma’am, I couldn’t ask that of you. Ma wouldn’t approve of takin’ hand-outs, and neither would Isaac.”  
  
“I wouldn’t offer if you’d be putting me out. But it’s your decision, and I respect that. Do the police have any suspects?”  
  
“Well, they think Fred Wilson might’ve had something to do with it, on account of Isaac discovering one of his secrets,” Eddie muses. “But I just can’t see him doing something like that…”  
  
“But according to the autopsy, Isaac wasn’t shot,” Jeremy says. “Fred was a hunter; wouldn’t he have used a gun? He had plenty.”  
  
“Thinking like a lawyer,” Casey says, ruffling Jeremy’s hair.  
  
“And if Isaac went over there to confront him, didn’t he think Fred might try to keep him quiet?”  
  
Dad shakes his head and makes a noise of disgust. “Don’t you know nothing good comes of digging up the past? It’s over and done. Let the poor kid grieve without dragging it all back up again.”  
  
Jeremy feels profoundly wounded. He’s only trying to help find Isaac’s killer, but maybe the perpetrator will never be caught or known, and all of this is just hurting Eddie even more. Suddenly, Jeremy is aware of the damage this investigation might be doing to everyone: Eddie, Casey, himself, and a town who preferred to believe Isaac simply ran away from a less than stellar household.   
  
“Dad, we’re just… It’s an active investigation,” Jeremy says, his justification sounding flimsy in his own ears.  
  
“Then leave it to the police.” Dad rises from the armchair and steps out onto the back porch. He stands in the backyard as the gentle snow falls around him.  
  
Mom joins him outside in silent support. Jeremy watches them talk, but through the glass he can’t make out what they’re saying. Mom puts her hand on Dad’s arm.  
  
The living room goes quiet, save for the sound of the TV, then Casey cheers when the Seahawks score a touchdown.  
  


* * *

Mike Parks shows up to the house the next morning during breakfast. He kicks the snow off of his shoes and steps inside.  
  
“Want some coffee?” Jeremy offers, lifting his own mug. “Or tea, if you’d rather have that. My grandma’s obsessed with it.”  
  
Mike offers a crooked smile. He’s carrying a medium-sized cardboard box under one arm. “Coffee sounds great, if you don’t mind. Cream and sugar.”  
  
Jeremy leads him to the kitchen where the others are milling about. “Mom, you remember Mike Parks,” he says, pouring him a cup of freshly brewed coffee.  
  
“Yes, I do,” Mom says. “It’s good to see you again, Mike, though I wish the circumstances were better. You’re a detective now?”  
  
“That’s right. One of Harvest’s finest.” Mike chuckles at the joke.  
  
Jeremy hands him a warm mug of coffee. “What’s in the box?”  
  
“Actually, this is for Eddie.”  
  
Eddie perks up, a curious expression on his sleepy face. “What’s that now?”  
  
Mike approaches the table where Eddie’s sitting and places the box beside his chair. “I gathered up some clothes from the donation box at the station. They might not all be winners, but they’re better than nothing.”  
  
Eddie looks at the box, then at Mike. Tears well in his eyes. “That’s real nice of you.”  
  
“Don’t worry about it,” Mike says with a gentle smile. “We help each other out.”  
  
“I sure hope you didn’t come all the way out here just to trouble yourself with me,” Eddie says. “Seems like a long way to go just for some clothes.”  
  
“Well, there’s that, plus two more things I wanted to talk to you about.” Mike pulls up a vacant chair and sits, takes a sip of coffee. “Oh, this is nice!”  
  
“Honey and vanilla,” Jeremy boasts, dropping into a seat at the table.  
  
“I may never go back to the station’s coffee again. Tastes like they’ve been soaking shoelaces in it.” Mike takes another long drink and smacks his lips. “So first things first: the fire investigation.”  
  
Mom knows when not to hover. “Why don’t we give them some privacy?” she says in a low voice to Grandma, and the two women leave the room.  
  
Mike waits until they’re gone before he speaks again. “The investigators are basically stumped. They can’t find a source or an accelerant or anything that explains how that fire got started. It’s like the house just spontaneously combusted.”  
  
“How is that even possible?”  
  
“We have no idea. It could be ball lightning, which is lightning in an orb form that just comes through your window and sets shit on fire,” Mike says, “but there were no records of storms or lightning activity around the time the fire started. And as cold as it gets here at night, you wouldn’t have had any windows open anyway.”  
  
“The only reason there was one open is because we jumped out of it,” Casey says.  
  
“Yeah, exactly. My head tells me it’s some angry townsperson who torched the place, but then why can’t we prove that? Obviously, Zebrowski’s dead set on this being ghost-related. I’m hovering in that direction too.” Mike taps his chin as if in deep thought. “Something must really have pissed this ghost off.”  
  
Jeremy glances at Eddie. Eddie’s face is redder than a cherry tomato, his head ducked in a way he hopes will obscure his cheeks with his hair. As though telepathic, Jeremy realizes what Eddie’s thinking.  
  
Oh no.  
  
Mike notices their blushing. “I feel like you guys know something.”  
  
Jeremy and Eddie exchange a glance. Eddie would never talk about his sex life with someone who isn’t his partner, so it’s up to Jeremy to break the news. “We, uh… We did some things last night that might have offended Isaac’s Lutheran sensibilities.”  
  
Mike laughs delightedly. “Oh wow. Y’know, I had a feeling about you guys even back when we were in school.”  
  
Casey snickers.  
  
“Shut up!” Jeremy says, rolling his eyes.  
  
“I think it’s really sweet,” Mike says. “Not that many people end up with their first crush. Or find their way back to them.” He takes another drink of coffee. “So you think you two getting it on made Isaac angry enough to burn the house down?”  
  
Eddie raises his head reluctantly. He’s crying again, thick tears welled at the corners of his eyes. “That’s what we were fighting about before he went missing. He found out I like guys over girls, and he didn’t take it too well.”  
  
Mike nods like it all makes sense. “I imagine he wouldn’t. But before I forget, there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. Since our medical examiner performed an autopsy and evidence has been collected and photographed, it’s time to start thinking about how you’d like to put Isaac to rest. In the end, it’s your decision, but if I may make a suggestion? Cremation is probably the best option, both for your budget and peace of mind. If Isaac’s remains are salted and burned, that will force his spirit to move on. No more hauntings. But we can look into other ways to placate angry spirits if you’d prefer to bury his remains.”  
  
Eddie takes a long, deep breath. Jeremy doesn’t envy him. He hasn’t had to make a decision about the afterlife in any real, tangible way. He can’t imagine picking out his mother or father’s home for all eternity, or being entangled in all the details required to put a body underground. Isaac is Eddie’s last remaining family member, and there’s probably a great amount of pressure involved in giving him a proper and respectful sendoff.   
  
“I…” Eddie blinks, sending slow trails of tears down his rosy cheeks. “Maybe cremation is best.”   
  
Jeremy wonders if Eddie’s saying that because he believes it or because he heard Mike say it.  
  
“Alright. Would you like to have a funeral, or do you just want the remains?”  
  
“A funeral would be proper,” Eddie says after a moment of thought. “Doesn’t seem right not to have one.”  
  
Jeremy wants to remind Eddie a funeral means being around the same townspeople who would have burned the farmhouse to the ground if Isaac hadn’t gotten there first. The same people who think he murdered Pamela Sharkey. But that wouldn’t change Eddie’s mind. Hell, maybe Eddie already knows. Family is so important to him he’s willing to take the slings and arrows from the town if it means giving his brother due respect. Even if that same brother did try to kill the three of them the other night.


	17. Chapter 17

Isaac’s funeral is held the next day and is attended by a good portion of Harvest’s residents, who use the opportunity to stare at Eddie with a mix of curiosity and hostility. Mike and Zebrowski are in attendance as well, serving as crowd control and an authoritative presence to discourage any outbursts or violence.  
  
Eddie shrinks under the town’s collective gaze, trying to disappear into Jeremy and Casey’s protective forms. Their presence offers the only true comfort on this horrible day. Facing the silent wrath of the unforgiving townspeople makes anxiety rise within Eddie. They will never entertain his innocence, yet here he is, willfully walking into the lion’s den to honor Isaac.  
  
Why couldn’t Eddie have hated his brother? That would make all of this so much simpler.  
  
The service is held at the Harvest church. Eddie and his entourage make up most of the first row. The box containing Isaac’s ashes sits at the front of the room, and Eddie wonders how a person’s life and hopes and dreams can all be consolidated after death into a few pounds of ash. He contemplates if finding what was left of Isaac’s body would be a relief for Ma, an end to the crushing hope that one day her son would return. He thinks about Isaac, about what his final thoughts must have been, and shivers.  
  
Most of the service is a blur. Eddie never pays attention during funerals. He goes numb. It’s the only way he can get through them.  
  
Frank Drayton, the old preacher who ran the church back when Isaac and Eddie were children, gives a heartfelt eulogy about a life interrupted and reads some Bible verses; would Isaac take offense at having his funeral in a Methodist church? No one else speaks or pays tribute to Isaac, and it’s only now that Eddie realizes how isolated his brother was. Eddie himself might have been a loner, but at least he has Jeremy—and even Mike Parks—to speak at his own funeral when the time comes. Isaac had only his family, and Eddie was never much of a public speaker.  
  
After the service, Eddie is whisked away from the rest of the crowd and their hushed whispers. He hears his own name carried on the current, and he flinches away from it.  
  
“Takes a whole lot of nerve,” someone says.  
  
“It should’a been him instead. Little oddball.”  
  
“Never thought he’d be the kind of guy to do that sort of thing.”  
  
Eddie is ushered into Mike’s police car, along with Casey and Jeremy. He has been given the box of ashes, like it’s a consolation prize on a game show, and he clutches it in his hands. “I think I want to visit the cemetery,” Eddie says.  
  
Mike drives them to the Harvest Township cemetery. The ground is covered in a thick blanket of snow, tombstones jutting from the earth like misshapen teeth. Aside from one other grieving soul, they are alone here. Eddie treks through the snow and finds his parents’ graves easily, as though he’s magnetically drawn to them. He sets the box on the empty plot beside Ma, the space reserved for him, and sits there among his people.  
  
“You want us to give you a moment?” Jeremy asks.  
  
Eddie manages a nod.   
  
“We’ll be in the car.” His entourage leaves then, and Eddie watches them grow smaller and smaller until they disappear into the car. He looks at Ma’s grave, the earth freshly disturbed from her second internment into the soil, and something inside of him shatters.  
  
The engraving on the gray marble reads: Mary Lehrke, 1920-1980.  
  
Eddie sobs as he runs his fingers over the grooves that spell her name, torn apart by the magnitude of his loss and the shame of mourning her still when he has just lost Isaac. But it doesn’t seem fair that his whole family is together again this way, two of them beneath the ground and one turned to ashes. He closes his eyes, resting his forehead against the cool, smooth headstone, trying to feel Ma’s presence in the air around him. If uncovering Isaac’s remains disturbed his spirit, why didn’t Ma appear as a ghost to Eddie when he’d dug up her grave? He doesn’t know if he should be happy that she’s at peace, or saddened that she didn’t want to come back and spend time with him.  
  
A harsh, unfamiliar voice barks Eddie’s name.  
  
Eddie turns to see a man standing over him. That angry face rattles a memory in Eddie’s brain, but he can’t shake it loose. The stranger is young, probably Eddie’s age, and there’s a furious scowl carved onto his brow and mouth.  
  
“You piece of shit,” the man’s voice quivers with rage, on the brink of tears. “What’d my mother ever do to you?”  
  
The air goes out of Eddie’s lungs. This is Jason Sharkey. Pamela’s son. Word around town is Jason left Harvest for California, eventually finding work as a stuntman. And, judging by the formidable size of him, he succeeded. Jason looks big enough to play the role of Superman, though he’d need a wig to cover his buzzed-short hair.  
  
“I didn’t hurt her,” Eddie whimpers.  
  
“Oh, fuck  _off_! She was in your house! She went over there to be nice to you, and you killed her like she was some kind of animal!” Jason’s hands tighten into fists at his sides as he grits his words through his teeth.  
  
The words pierce Eddie like bullets. “I didn’t hurt her, Jason, I swear.”  
  
“I don’t trust a goddamn word out of your mouth. You’re a fucking psycho. I heard what you did to your mother. Dug her up and kept her in your house. Is that why you killed my mom? The cops took Mummy away so you went and found another?” Jason’s eyes are dark with hate. “I bet you killed him, too.” He gestures with his chin to the box containing Isaac’s ashes. “Can’t be a coincidence everyone around you ends up here.”  
  
When phrased that way, Eddie almost wishes he were a murderer; at least he’d be in control of his family’s deaths. Instead, he is a living bad luck charm, a human curse to be shunned and avoided. Eddie blinks, his tears nearly sticking his eyes shut. “I didn’t kill anyone,” he says feebly.  
  
Without warning, Jason’s fist slams into Eddie’s jaw with the force of a locomotive. White-hot fire explodes in Eddie’s brain, flashbulbs popping behind his eyes. Jason grabs the front of Eddie’s shirt and jacket in a fist, pulling him up before he can slump to the cold ground. Eddie’s replacement deer-hunter cap lands on the snow beside him, like a bouquet of flowers laid upon Ma’s grave.  
  
“You fucking liar!” Jason seethes, and his breath hot against Eddie’s face.  
  
Through the electric pain flashing through him and the ringing in his ears, Eddie hears Mike and Zebrowski closing in, their shouts growing louder.  
  
Jason sees the approaching cops, flicks his gaze back to Eddie. With a frustrated yell, Jason shoves Eddie backwards, and Eddie’s skull meets the unforgiving marble of his mother’s headstone. Pain crackles through Eddie, and he’s vaguely aware of Zebrowski rushing in and pinning Jason’s arms behind him. Then Casey and Jeremy are at Eddie’s side, helping him to his feet.  
  
“You okay?”  
  
“My head hurts,” Eddie whimpers. The back of his skull throbs like a bruised testicle. He’s afraid to touch it.  
  
“Damn. Okay, we’ll get you checked out,” Mike promises. “Tom, he’s all yours.”  
  
“Are you gonna behave, or do I have to take you in?” Zebrowski says to Jason.  
  
Jason ignores him, glaring daggers at Eddie. “Wish I could’a burned your place down, but someone else got to it first.”  
  
“Okay, I guess I’m throwing you in lock-up for the night,” Zebrowski says, hustling Jason towards the car.  
  
Still dazed from the blows, Eddie gazes up at Jeremy, Mike, and Casey surrounding him. Jeremy reaches out and tucks a piece of Eddie’s hair back into place. “You’ve been getting roughed up a lot lately.” He smiles, his hand lingering near Eddie’s face.  
  
Eddie returns the smile. “I’ve got a hard head.”  
  
Without provocation, Jeremy jerks his hand back, rubbing at his fingers as though he’s been burned.  
  
“What?”  
  
Jeremy studies his hand, turning it over and over, searching for an invisible injury. “I don’t know… It was like something touched me.”  
  
“Maybe you’re just getting creeped out standing around in a cemetery,” Casey offers.  
  
“Yeah… maybe.” Jeremy sticks his hands into the pockets of his coat, glancing around as though trying to locate the source of the mysterious touch.  
  
“We should get you to a hospital,” Mike tells Eddie. “Just to be safe.”  
  
Eddie nods, not really hearing him. “Yeah. Just…” He looks at the box of Isaac’s remains.  
  
In a moment of sadness and anger and embarrassment, Eddie hates his brother. All of this is Isaac’s fault. If he hadn’t stormed off that fateful day, he wouldn’t have gotten killed, and Ma would have died from old age or disease, not heartbreak. And if Isaac hadn’t sliced Pamela’s throat—out of what, jealousy?—Eddie wouldn’t be number one on Harvest’s shit list. He’s given a lot of thought to moving, but now relocating is a necessity, not an option, unless he’d prefer to live here as a permanent outcast. No one will believe a ghost killed Pamela, even if he is aquitted at trial.  
  
Maybe he’d still have a roof over his head and clothes of his own. Maybe he wouldn’t be charged with second-degree murder.  
  
In an alternate universe, one where Isaac was kind and protective of Eddie and did not seek retribution beyond the grave, Eddie would take these remains home and put them into a nice urn or something he could place on top of a mantel. But this is not that universe.  
  
Fuck Isaac.   
  
Eddie grabs the box and opens it. Inside is a plastic container with a see-through baggie holding the ashes. He rips open the bag and turns it upside down. The ash rides the wind, floating along on the breeze and settling onto the stark white snow. Eddie thinks he should feel like something has changed, or that he’s given his brother a metaphorical middle-finger. He doesn’t feel better, but he doesn’t feel worse, and that’s a start.  
  
No one says anything about the display, perhaps assuming Eddie has fulfilled some long-standing wish of Isaac’s to have his ashes spread over his parents’ graves. They don’t know it’s a malicious act, a hateful irreverence to a no-good brother.  
  
Eddie turns away from the graves. “Okay, I’m ready.”   
  
Jeremy reaches out again, his thumb rubbing at Eddie’s tear-stained cheek. “You’ve got ash on your face,” he says, playfully, until he snatches his hand back again like someone has smacked it away. “Shit, okay, let’s get out of here.”  
  
Eddie catches a worried look on Mike’s face as they leave the cemetery.  
  


* * *

 _September 1962_  
  
The first time it happened, Eddie was eight years old. He had been in his bedroom, huddled against the far wall, using the moonlight coming in through the window so he could read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. He heard his parents’ shouts from downstairs. Their voices grew louder, angrier, and Eddie heard their words with perfect clarity. Pa ranted about how money was scarce, and Ma snarled back with accusations of Pa’s laziness and how she worked so hard at the butcher shop every day “just to keep this family afloat.” Then Pa shouted about how he breaks his back all day in the fields, and how Ma never recognized his contributions to this family.   
  
Contributions. That was the word he used. Like he was donating to charity, or dropping money in the church’s collection plate.  
  
Eddie set his book down and crept out of the room, keeping low. He knew what was coming, and this time he would try to stop it. He hid in the darkness, peering down at his parents from the second floor.  
  
“Your only  _contributions_  to this family were two filthy children,” Ma said. “They should have been girls. I could have shown them the grace of God and saved their souls. But they took after you. Wretched and sinful.”  
  
“You’re the one raising them! If a mother can’t properly care for her children, what good is she?”  
  
“This isn’t about you, Charles! Oh, yes, poor orphan Charles, lend me your wisdom on child-rearing! I’m sure your mother was such an excellent example!”  
  
Then came the blows. The violence Pa was capable of always terrified Eddie. Ma cowered on the floor as Pa beat her with his fists.  
  
“Go on, Charles!” she said, egging him on through the punches. “Hit me! That’s all you’re good for anymore!”  
  
Something red spread across Ma’s face, and for a moment Eddie wondered if it was ketchup, because the thought of her bleeding was incomprehensible. But it was blood, and the sight of it compelled Eddie into action. He practically tumbled down the stairs, rushing to her rescue. “Stop it!” He lunged for his mother, covering her body with his own as if he were throwing himself on top of a grenade.  
  
He was used to the beatings, but they still hurt. Pa’s punches hit Eddie’s head and shoulder and ribs, until he grabbed fistfuls of Eddie’s shirt and tossed him like a sack of potatoes. Eddie hit the wall with a smack, his vision hazy. Before the world went black, he saw Isaac standing at the top of the stairs, his expression unreadable.  
  


* * *

 _October 1969_  
  
The last time it happened, Eddie was fifteen. He was in Isaac’s room, looking through his brother’s sports trading cards while Isaac did homework. Eddie heard the shatter of glass from downstairs, heard Pa’s bellowing voice and Ma’s shrieks of consternation.  
  
Immediately, Eddie rushed for the door. He was older now, taller and stronger too, and he could get a couple good licks in before Pa had him whipped. Sure, that always earned him an extra beating, but he didn’t care if it meant protecting Ma.   
  
Something—or someone—jerked Eddie’s shirt, and Eddie went stumbling backwards onto his rear. Isaac stood over him, a look of admonishment on his face. “Don’t,” Isaac said.  
  
From downstairs, Ma shouted about how the Lord would certainly punish Pa for his cruelty.  
  
“He’s hurting her!” Eddie protested. He scrambled to his feet, but Isaac was bigger than him and easily forced Eddie back to the ground.  
  
“It never helps!” Isaac told him. “It just makes things worse! How come you never learn?”  
  
“He could kill her.” The tears streaming down Eddie’s cheeks had seemingly come out of nowhere. “He could really kill her.”  
  
“If he did, we’d get taken away and put with another family. Maybe we’d get good parents.”  
  
Eddie gasped. The weight of Isaac’s words juxtaposed with Ma and Pa’s fight in the background made Eddie’s stomach turn. “Ma’s just about as good as any woman can be.”  
  
Isaac scoffed, giving Eddie a half-hearted shove. “Fine, go down there and get your ass kicked again. I don’t care. You can take beatings for her and follow all her rules and worship her like she’s the actual virgin Mary, but it won’t make her love you.”  
  
Isaac turned away then, gathering his math book off the floor where it had fallen. He sat in the chair and opened the book.  
  
Eddie watched him scribble equations onto paper before exiting the room. He didn’t go downstairs. He slipped into his own room and shut the door.


	18. Chapter 18

_November 1980_  
  
Mike takes Eddie to a small hospital outside of town, where Eddie stays the night under observation. Since Mike opts to stand guard, there isn’t much Casey and Jeremy can do but head back to Cedar Pass. During the drive, Jeremy sits in the passenger seat of Casey’s Oldsmobile, fiddling with the radio. He doesn’t feel much like listening to music, but the silence is beginning to choke him from the inside. He settles on a rock station playing “Midnight Rider.”  
  
“Do you think Eddie has a chance at trial?” Jeremy wonders. The fear of a conviction has him gripped tight.  
  
“Well, the blood spatter doesn’t match up. Plus, the knife has your fingerprints on it, not his. And since Mike Parks himself and other witnesses corroborate that you were at the diner during the murder, they can’t pin it on you.” Casey shrugs. “They didn’t find any clothes or gloves Eddie could have used that he later tried to hide or burn. The most damning thing they have is her dead body in his house. But there’s no concrete evidence, and I don’t think they can weave a story that would play well for a jury.”  
  
Jeremy touches his hand where the cold spots had been, as though worrying an old scar. “You’re not upset about me and Eddie?”  
  
“Hell no. I was rooting for you two. Truth is, I got a lot of love for you. You’ve helped me a lot, and we’ve had plenty of good times. Maybe it’ll hurt a little when you leave, but I knew the risks going in. I’ve had my heart broken for real; nothing much fazes me anymore.”  
  
Jeremy hadn’t realized how much he will miss Casey until just now. Casey had been a strong, solid shape in the dark, a protector, someone who seemed to have all the answers. Now Jeremy will have to be those things to Eddie, and the thought is terrifying.  
  
“Can I convince you to go in with us on a threesome sort of thing?” Jeremy asks, half-jokingly.  
  
Casey laughs. “Good luck getting Eddie to agree to that. Either way, that’s not my style. I want to try to have a family again. Not right now, but in the future. And that ain’t gonna happen if I’m in a polygamous relationship with two other dudes.”  
  
This is perhaps the calmest, most agreeable breakup in relationship history. Jeremy coughs at a sudden tickle in his throat. “Thanks for… going to the funeral. It meant a lot to Eddie. And I know it wasn’t easy for you.”  
  
“It’s a lot easier when you’re not the one grieving.”  
  
Jeremy nods and watches the countryside roll by.  
  
Patches rushes to greet them when they arrive at Grandma’s, but he seems disappointed that Eddie is absent from the group. In the living room, Mom and Grandma are chatting over tea.  
  
“There you are,” Mom says, rising from her chair and embracing Jeremy. “How was the service?”  
  
“Oh, it was awesome. During the encore they revealed it was all a prank and Isaac was alive the whole time.”  
  
Mom gives Jeremy a chiding look for his sarcasm. “I suppose that was a dumb question. What happened to Eddie?”  
  
“He hit his head, so Mike took him to the hospital for an overnight stay. Just a precaution.”  
  
Mom gasps. “Oh dear.”  
  
“I’m sure he’s fine. He’s pretty resilient.”  
  
Jeremy doesn’t know what to do with himself without Eddie, so he keeps busy by cobbling together a Dutch apple pie with a cinnamon roll crust. A surprise for Eddie when he’s released from the hospital.  
  
Since Jeremy’s youth, cooking and baking have been two of his favorite hobbies, but lately he has used them as a distraction from the emptiness and depression threatening to consume him. His almost manic level of productivity serves him well at work, but it’s probably a hindrance in any other setting.  
  
His roommate Chris had been the psychoanalyzing type, an armchair therapist, and once he suggested that Jeremy’s habit of cooking and baking too much was a ploy to get people to like him. Chris’ theory was that Jeremy overcompensates for his own lack of self-esteem, and tries to win people’s favor by constantly going the extra mile. When presented with this theory, Jeremy had told Chris to fuck off, but looking at Jeremy’s output the last couple of meals, maybe Chris had a point.    
  
As Jeremy slices the apples, his hand begins to ache with a sharp pain along the top. Jeremy pauses to examine it. Strange, faint bruising has bloomed underneath the thin skin covering the bones of his fingers. Immediately, his brain leaps to a paranormal explanation, recalling the strange cold touches at the cemetery, but a more likely cause is that he smacked it on a countertop or a hard surface and doesn’t remember doing it. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time; he’s woken up with inexplicable bruises before, discovered some in the shower behind the pale shadows of the curtain. Why should this one be any different?  
  
He smothers a cough into the crook of his arm. Then again a few minutes later.  
  
“Are you alright?” Mom asks, ever the watchful parent. “You’ve been coughing a lot since you got back.”  
  
“Probably just getting a cold.”  
  
“Maybe you should have stayed overnight at the hospital too.”  
  
Jeremy has to chuckle. “Mom, it’s just a cough. I’ll be fine.”  
  
Grandma offers him some cough drops from her purse, and Jeremy happily accepts, because those cherry bastards are delicious.  
  
That night, Jeremy settles into bed, lonely and longing. Patches is there with him, curled in a ball towards the foot of the bed, but his warmth and presence aren’t the same as Eddie’s. Jeremy lies awake, wonders if he could persuade Eddie to live with him in Chicago. Would Eddie have fun adapting to the bustle of big-city life, or has the modern world left him behind, and each day would be a struggle to acclimate?   
  
Despite Casey’s insistence that he was putting on a show for the judge, Jeremy can’t help but feel a ring of truth in Casey’s words. He knows from first-hand experience that Eddie was sheltered as fuck while they were growing up. And he doubts that changed much after he left Harvest. Jeremy had been Eddie’s only anchor to the outside world, and leaving enabled Mary’s influence to close around Eddie like a fist. Mike may have stopped by and tried his best to keep Eddie engaged in Harvest’s social circle, but Mike had a life, too. He couldn’t spend all his time with Eddie.   
  
 _Some people are just born broken. Like black holes, impossible to fill._  
  
Maybe Jeremy could pull some strings and get Eddie a job at the restaurant. He thinks about taking Eddie to a Cubs game—hell, even the Sox would do, since Eddie’s probably never been to a proper baseball game. He imagines them going to movies, to comic shops, sharing a pizza in the quiet comfort of Jeremy’s apartment. Jeremy loses himself in these happy thoughts and eventually falls asleep.  
  


* * *

Eddie’s house is dirtier than Jeremy remembers. Pushing his way inside, Jeremy takes in the chaos and debris scattered over the floor, piled on counters and tables. Empty soda cans, grime-soaked newspapers, old medicine bottles. The air is foul and thick with squalor, a pungent odor of meat coming from the kitchen. Jeremy fumbles blindly in the darkness, his hands seeking direction. “Ed?”  
  
“You made it!” Eddie emerges from the blackness, carrying a dim lantern. His cap casts a shadow over his eyes, but his smile is bright and perceptible. “Just make your way around all that. I’ve been neglecting my chores.”  
  
Jeremy doesn’t know why he came or why Eddie is expecting him here. It seems strange to show up to someone’s house without warning. “You, uh, you invited me?”   
  
“Funny thing, Ma said you should come over. She wants to get to know you now that we’re seeing each other like a proper couple.” Eddie grins and moves closer. He sets the lantern on the dining table, and Jeremy almost screams out loud.  
  
There are too many things wrong with all of this, so it takes his brain a moment to soak in all the ‘what the fuck’ illuminated by the light. At the center of the table, as though it’s a Thanksgiving cornucopia, is a bleached and polished human skull. The candleholders on either side of the skull seem to be crafted out of bones. Behind one of the three places at the table is Eddie’s mother, rot eating away at her leather-like skin. She looks like a decaying scarecrow, the surface of her face blasted with cracks and fissures. The flesh of her lips has fallen away to reveal grey-black teeth. Unmoving, she wears a white dress with yellow flowers, and, despite passing for a zombie extra from Dawn of the Dead, looks rather nice.  
  
Jeremy has no words. Stammering, he watches Eddie wade through the debris to tend to the stove.  
  
“Why don’t you check the icebox and pick out what you want for supper?” Eddie says. Something on the stovetop sizzles, and Jeremy forces himself not to ask, not to even look, because he knows whatever’s in that frying pan will only haunt his nightmares.  
  
On legs that feel nerveless, Jeremy moves toward the fridge. He opens the door, and terror bangs against his chest.  
  
The refrigerator is filled with body parts: arm muscles, a torso, various organs in Mason jars and plastic containers. On the bottom shelf is a six-pack of Coors.  
  
“What the fuck?” Jeremy manages to say, shutting the fridge with such force that a magnet shakes loose and drops to the floor, lost to the darkness. “Eddie, what the fuck? What happened to you? Why are you like this?”  
  
Eddie turns, his head tilted the way a dog does when it hears a strange sound. “Not sure what you mean. I’ve always been this way.”  
  
“No.” Jeremy shakes his head, as though it can shake away the hell on earth he’s seen here. “No! Last time this place was so clean you could eat off the floor! You don’t even have a fridge! And your mother would never ever invite me over, especially if she knew about us! You’re not a killer, Eddie. None of this is real. It can’t be.”  
  
Eddie opens a cabinet over the stove, pulling out a bowl and spooning something inside. “Why don’t we talk this out over supper?” He hands Jeremy the bowl: a human skull with the top sawed off, hollowed out to better serve its new purpose. Inside is a human heart, cut in half and still beating, each muscle contraction pumping blood and creating a morbid soup.  
  
Jeremy’s shout fills the bedroom, and he wakes with his own heart pounding violently in his chest, his skin covered in icy sweat.  
  
Patches rises from the edge of the bed, climbing up near Jeremy to offer the comfort of his presence. Jeremy strokes the dog’s head and tries to calm the manic beat of his heart.


	19. Chapter 19

Mike drives Eddie to Jeremy’s grandmother’s house after his release from the hospital. It’s a typical gray winter morning, and if it weren’t for the snow covering the land, Eddie would figure it might rain.

“I really appreciate all you’ve done,” Eddie tells him on the way.

A smile twitches at the corners of Mike’s mouth. “Hey, don’t worry about it. You’re my friend, and I’m here to help.”

“I just wish I didn’t have to take up so much of your time.”

“I’ve got a lot of time on my hands, Ed. It’s usually pretty calm around here.”

Eddie feels a wave of guilt for disrupting that calm. He has no idea how he’s supposed to eke out a life in Harvest after everything he’s done, everything the town believes him to be. How does a man bear that weight?

“What do you think will happen at trial?”

Mike makes a contemplative face. “There’s a chance it might not even go to trial. Going to court is time-consuming and expensive for everyone, and sometimes it can take years for a case to see the inside of a courtroom. But I have a hunch the DA will drop the charges.”

“And why’s that?”

“I think my dad is pressuring DA Bates to take this to trial, but Bates is a smart prosecutor. He probably knows getting a conviction in a trial like this would be a crapshoot. I think Casey’s already given you the run-down on why. But charging you with the crime and then dropping those charges later serves its purpose: they want you out of Harvest. What better way to force you to leave than turn the whole town against you?”

Eddie never knew that was even possible. “Folks have always treated me like a clown. You really think it’ll be that bad?”

“You read the paper. There’s only like three or four big stories a year here. Everything else is bullshit filler. Christ, I was on the front page of the paper once because I caught a big fish.”

He’d assumed the furor surrounding Pamela Sharkey’s death would dissipate, that a trial ending in acquittal might temper the flames. But Harvest will want their pound of flesh. An acquittal will only feed the fire.

“This place has been my home all my life. Hard to pack up and leave all that,” Eddie murmurs. “Where do you think I should go?”

“I thought you were gonna go to Chicago with Jeremy.”

Eddie stares at his hands, a bashful flush creeping over his face. “I might, if he’ll have me. But a feller has to think these things through before he goes rushing off to who knows where.”

“I try not to give out life advice,” says Mike. “I don’t want any liability issues. But I think Chicago will be good for you.” He glances over at Eddie and smiles. “For what it’s worth, I’ll miss you.”

At the house, Jeremy sits at the dining table with Casey, his mother, and grandma. Clutched in his hands is a mug with a teabag string draped over the side. Eddie hangs up his coat and hat on the rack in the foyer. “You should come in,” he says to Mike, who’s lingering at the doorstep like he isn’t sure if he’s welcome. “If you’re not busy.”

“I’ll just be a minute,” Mike says, stepping inside along with Eddie.

Patches leaps at Eddie, two happy paws clamoring over his chest and stomach. Eddie giggles and pets him. “Good to see you, too.” Patches drops back onto four legs before trotting over to the table.

“I guess the doc cleared you,” Casey says, taking in Eddie’s lack of bandages.

Eddie says, “I’m as healthy as I’ll ever be.”

“I’m glad to hear you have a clean bill of health, dear,” Jeremy’s mother—Miss Linda—says, placing a hand on Eddie’s arm. “Wouldn’t want you getting sick too.”

“Who’s sick?” Eddie wonders.

“My hard-headed grandson,” Grandma Palmer cuts in, her tone teasing. “We told him to go to the hospital, but did he listen?”

“It’s probably just a stomach bug,” Jeremy insists before drinking from the cup.

Eddie’s pleased to see Jeremy imbibing something other than alcohol. “What’re you drinking?”

“Mint calming tea. Grandma says it’s supposed to soothe the stomach and make you tired.” Jeremy says it like he thinks it’s all nonsense.

Concern bursts to life in Eddie’s chest, blooming outwards like a mushroom cloud. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I woke up from a nightmare last night and couldn’t get back to sleep. It’s like my heart won’t stop pounding. And then there’s the coughing, and constantly feeling like I’m gonna puke.”

Eddie notices a strange shadow on Jeremy’s right hand. He reaches out a tentative finger to peel away the sleeve of Jeremy’s sweatshirt so he can see. “What happened to your hand?”

“I must’ve smacked it on something.”

The bruise is a hideous mix of colors Eddie has only seen on the dead. “Does it hurt?”

“Not really.”

Mike moves in to take a look at Jeremy’s discolored hand. “Did you get bitten by a snake?”

“Not that I remember. And if this is a snakebite, I’d be dead already.”

Mike rubs his chin. “When did you start feeling symptoms?”

“Yesterday, after we got back from the cemetery.”

Judging by his face, Mike doesn’t like the sound of that. His brow is knit in thought, his mouth quirked as he mulls over these facts. “I might need to talk with Zebrowski on this one.”

“You think it’s something supernatural?” Casey says, frowning like he doesn’t appreciate having to acknowledge the paranormal out loud.

“I don’t know, but the timing is super suspicious. In the meantime, he really should get to a hospital. All of this”—Mike gestures to Jeremy—”is terrifying.”

“Thanks,” Jeremy grumbles, taking another sip of tea. Eddie notices how tired he looks. “I’ll give it another day, then I’ll see a doctor.”

Mike makes a face like he disagrees. “I wouldn’t gamble with your life, but you’re the one calling the shots. I’ll call you guys later if I find anything, okay?”

Eddie cheerfully sees him out, bids him safe travels back to Harvest. When he gets back to the kitchen, Jeremy tells him, “I baked you a pie.”

“You did?” Eddie isn’t sure what to make of this, but he’s touched that he’s enough of a presence inside Jeremy to earn such an act of kindness. But instead of gratitude, what comes out is Eddie’s brand of offbeat humor and teasing. “You’re awful strange.”

Jeremy scoffs, good-naturedly. “Fine, don’t eat it. Casey’ll be happy to.”

“Look at me,” Casey says, slapping a hand over his formidable gut. “You think I won’t?”

“I never said I wouldn’t eat it,” Eddie says, playfully. He retrieves the pie from the fridge and sets it on the table.

“That’s too much sugar for me,” Miss Linda says. “I can’t eat like you young ones anymore.”

“Speak for yourself,” Grandma Palmer says. “Eddie, would you mind sharing?”

“Not at all, ma’am.”

A little while later, Grandma Palmer has taken to the couch to watch her soaps. Casey helps Miss Linda in the laundry room with the clothes. Eddie’s still at the table working on the pie while Jeremy watches him. If it were anyone else, Eddie would be unnerved, but he has never felt the need to hide with Jeremy. He can be his oddball self, and Jeremy will just smile and laugh and still love him. It is a frightening thing, being loved unconditionally.

“You gonna eat that whole pie?” Jeremy asks.

“You could help me.”

“Nah, too nauseous.”

“Promise me you’ll go to the doctor?” Eddie lowers his voice to a murmur. “I don’t wanna lose you again.”

Jeremy toys with the teabag string. “I’ll go tomorrow. By myself. I don’t wanna bother anyone.”

“You’re not a bother. We all love you.”

“Even you? And why is that? Just because I was nice to you when we were kids?” Jeremy’s words are harsh, but his tone is defeated, dismayed. “If things had shaken out differently, it could’ve been you and Mike together.”

Eddie laughs at the idea. “I don’t think Mike shares our appreciation for other fellers,” he says with a wink of his sleepy eye. “But I like you, Jer, and that’s that.”

“I think that knock to your head really scrambled your brains.”

“See, that’s why I like you. You’re funny. Whether or not you deserve me isn’t your call to make.”

Jeremy gives him a tired smile. “You can be pretty wise sometimes, Ed.”

* * *

 

A horrible dream blasts Jeremy out of sleep. His limbs still quaking in terror, he slips out of bed, careful not to wake Eddie slumbering beside him. Jeremy staggers into the bathroom, closes the door and flicks on the light. He barely recognizes the reflection in the mirror. His face has lost some of its color, beginning to shift to a deathly grey. The circles under his eyes have deepened, darkened, giving him the look of a zombie recently risen from the grave. He braces his arms on the sink, certain he’s going to be sick. That’s when he catches sight of the bruise hiding beneath his sweatshirt. He pushes up his sleeve.

What once were small finger-like bruises on his wrist have united into a mass of putrid colors crawling all the way up to his elbow. His skin looks leathered, like that of a mummified cadaver pulled from the ground. Jeremy pokes at his arm with a finger. It’s hot and brittle to the touch, its texture waxy.

Breathing is a struggle. Jeremy feels a hand squeeze his insides, then there’s lava in his throat. He bends over the sink and vomits.

Jeremy doesn’t know if he’s puking because he’s actually sick, or because what he’s seen in the mirror is so violently repulsive he can do nothing else. His heart won’t stop pounding. He can hear it in his ears, a constant fury of beats he cannot slow. Unsurprisingly, the threat of possible cardiac arrest doesn’t calm him down.

What the fuck is happening to him? Is he dying? Is this what death is? No, he can’t die. Not yet. He can’t leave Eddie again.

Jeremy rinses out the sink and waits for the nausea to pass. He has never felt sicker in his entire life. Has he been poisoned? Maybe just being near Harvest is giving off toxic fumes.

He stumbles out of the bathroom. Patches stares at him, confused. Jeremy considers waking Eddie and asking for help, but he knows Eddie will panic. The little guy isn’t much of a help during a crisis. Casey is a better bet.

Using the wall to keep himself upright, Jeremy makes it down the hall to the guest room. His limbs are cooked noodles, wobbly with adrenaline. He pushes Casey’s sleeping form. “Casey, wake up. I think I’m dying.”


	20. Chapter 20

Mike and Zebrowski are standing over Jeremy when he opens his eyes. But Eddie’s is the face he finds first; his cheeks are wet with the shiny tracks of tears. He’s toying with his cap and worrying his lower lip between his teeth. “Jer, tell me you’re alright.”

Jeremy blinks himself fully awake. He smells industrial disinfectant, hears the continuous beep of medical machinery. Memory is a bit of a blur, but Jeremy tries to piece it together nonetheless. He remembers asking Casey to take him to the hospital, but that’s about as much as he can recall at the moment. He turns his head to watch the steady green blip on the heart monitor tracking his beats.

“I think I’m okay,” Jeremy manages to say. His tongue is sandpaper in his mouth.

“For now,” says Mike. “They put you on some drugs to normalize your heartbeat, but they’ll only work as long as you’re hooked up to the IVs.”

“Where’s Casey?”

“He took your ma and grandma down to the cafeteria,” Eddie says.

Jeremy nods, still somewhat dazed from whatever’s dripping into his veins. He forces himself to glance down, hoping to will his arm back to normalcy. The mummy arm is still attached to him. Looking at it, the appendage seems like it belongs to someone else, a horror movie prop among the overstarched white sheets. It’s hot and itching like a mad bastard, and Jeremy rakes his nails over the leathery skin.

“The doctors have no idea what the fuck is going on with that,” Zebrowski tells him, gesturing with his chin to Jeremy’s arm. “You’re a medical mystery.”

“I thought they would’ve cut it off.”

“They’re looking at amputation, but it’s not really a priority. Keeping your heart rate down is at the top of their list right now.”

“Oh Jesus.” Jeremy shuts his eyes, trying to fall back into the dreamless oblivion. “They can’t cut it off. I cannot fucking do my job with one goddamn arm. Fuck!” His mind runs through a great deal of things he’ll be unable to do without his right arm. Tears well in his eyes after number four.

“We have a theory,” Mike cuts in, disrupting Jeremy’s pity party.

“It better fucking be good.”

Wordlessly, Eddie sits in the chair beside Jeremy’s bed, his eyes wide. He reminds Jeremy of a frightened puppy.

“It’s called ghost sickness,” Mike says.

Jeremy lets out a groan. Goodbye right arm. He can’t even write his own name with his left hand. He’s fucked. Dead-ass fucked. A disturbing thought clangs around in his head: pull out the IV. Let your heartbeat thump out of your chest like the fist of a live man in a coffin.

“Some cultures believe spirits can infect the living with a disease,” Mike continues. “First it manifests as nightmares, then you get more and more terrified as the illness progresses. Then wounds mirroring those the originating ghost received begin to appear.” He looks pointedly at Jeremy’s mummy arm. “Then queasiness and vomiting until your heart gives out.”

Jeremy asks, “How do we stop it?”

“We get rid of the ghost who infected you.”

“I thought we did,” says Eddie. “That’s why we had Isaac cremated.”

Mike exhales a sigh, scrubbing a hand through his hair. His go-to gesture of frustration. “Which means Isaac wasn’t the ghost. So we’ve been looking at this all wrong.” He begins to pace around the room, dispelling the frantic energy built up inside of him. “Let’s go back to the beginning. All of this started when Isaac’s remains were discovered, but Jeremy’s the only one who’s experienced any sort of supernatural phenomena. He said a light bulb burst when he went into Mary’s room—”

Guilt stabs Jeremy like a hot poker. He steals a glance at Eddie, who looks wounded that his best friend would intrude on his sacred Ma’s space. Jeremy knows it’s something they’ll talk about later, when all of the life-or-death clamor has settled down.

“—Then he said he felt cold spots throughout the house,” Mike continues. “Remember: when we talked to the spirit, it never actually said its name was Isaac. It said its unfinished business was about Isaac. Then it gave Jeremy’s last name as the person it wanted to hurt. So all of this is focused on you. Or someone in your family.”

Zebrowski points at Jeremy. “Have you been fucking with us? Did you kill Isaac? Because all of this ghost shit started when you came back to Harvest.”

“Jesus, no!” Anger crackles over Jeremy’s already-heated skin, his blood boiling. “I would never do anything to hurt Eddie!”

Zebrowski folds his arms over his chest, resting them on his gut. “Then why did you leave town after the murder? If you loved Eddie so much, why didn’t you come back for him? You killed Isaac, and paid some local boozer to dump the truck at a salvage yard, and you left because you felt guilty.”

“I’m the last goddamn person in the world who would want to hurt Eddie,” Jeremy snarls. He wants to leap out of this bed and strangle Zebrowski. “I didn’t kill anyone.” Should the fact that his first instinct against such an accusation is violence weaken his argument?

Eddie has been suspiciously silent through these emotional outbursts. When Jeremy looks at him, Eddie is crying, his face buried in his hands, shoulders quaking with silent sobs. Fire burns in Jeremy’s lungs at the possibility Zebrowski crafted a clever enough story to fool Eddie. If these cops have turned Eddie against Jeremy…

“Ed…”

“I know who the ghost is,” Eddie chokes out, wiping his wet face with his hands. His lower lip quivers like a child’s. “It’s Ma.”

The walls feel a few feet closer in, the air a little thicker.

Eddie makes a whimpering noise, hiccups a sob. “She’s the only person who’d want to hurt Jeremy ‘cause of Isaac. She died in the house… of a heart attack. And her skin looked like his arm after I brought her up from the ground.”

Mike starts putting it together. “So the light bulb exploding was because Jeremy invaded her space.”

“Can ghosts read minds?” Jeremy asks. “’Cause I was wondering if she had killed Isaac at that moment.”

“Ghosts can feel thoughts, but it’s more about the energy around them,” Zebrowski says. “You were probably putting out some bad vibes.”

“And she killed Pamela because she had preached against ‘sinful women’ all her life,” Mike says. “So of course she’d try to stop another woman from making advances on her son.”

Eddie lowers his head into his hands. His fingers rake through his hair. “She hates Jeremy ‘cause I wanted to break all her rules for him. We slept together the night she burned the house down.”

“So all that anger just exploded, and when she didn’t kill Jeremy in the fire, she moved on to plan B. I bet that’s what Jeremy felt in the cemetery the other day. She was passing on the sickness.”

Eddie’s breathing fast, like he’s hyperventilating, his head clutched between his knees. “How could she do this? She never let me—” The rest of that thought chokes off. He sniffles. “Oh Lord, am I becoming a man who doesn’t like his mother? What kind of son am I?” He rubs at his grief-stained face, and anger takes its place. “How do we fix Jeremy? Salt and burn her body?”

Mike nods reluctantly. “Listen, Eddie, I know this must be a lot for you to take in right now. If you don’t feel up to it—”

“Either she burns, or he dies.” Eddie stands up and dons his cap. “We ought to get going then.”

* * *

 

“Do you think he’ll make it in time?” Jeremy wonders, glancing at the clock on the wall of the bland white hospital room.

“It’s a twenty-minute drive,” Casey says. He’s standing in front of the mirror over the sink, combing his hair into its usual perfect pompadour.

“Which might as well be an eternity when your life is literally on a ticking clock.”

“If Mike turns on the siren, they’ll get there in ten.”

Jeremy sighs. Ten minutes still feels too long. There are too many things that could go wrong in ten minutes.

Mom is sitting at his bedside. She vacillates between wringing her hands and placing them over Jeremy’s decaying arm, as though her touch may heal him. Grandma sits on the opposite side of him, quietly reciting a prayer on her rosary. He watches her bony fingers move from bead to bead.

On the heart monitor, the beeps accelerate.

* * *

As Zebrowski races them towards Harvest, adrenaline scorches Eddie’s throat. His heart has never thumped this fast. He screws his eyes shut and tries to remember how to breathe, fearing his heart might actually burst from his chest. He catches a sight of his reflection in the rear-view mirror. Underneath the collars of his jacket and flannel shirt, Eddie sees bruise-like discoloration forming on his neck.

“Fellas?” Eddie tugs his clothes away from his throat for a better look at the decay. “I think I’m infected too.”

“Shit,” Mike mutters under his breath. He turns in the passenger seat to look at Eddie and sees his terrified expression. “Just try to stay calm, okay? You need to keep your heart rate down.”

“Why is this happening?”

“Once a spirit infects someone, ghost sickness can spread like a common cold,” Zebrowski says to Eddie’s reflection in the rear-view mirror. “You and Jeremy doing all that”—he makes vulgar licking noises with his tongue—”probably passed it on to you, too.”

Mike cringes at the sound. “I hate when you do that.”

Eddie asks, “So anyone who touches him could get it?”

“Maybe since it’s your mother’s ghost doling out the sickness, she’s giving it to you as some sort of”—Mike searches for the word—”punishment for breaking her rules. Let’s not forget: she did try to kill you in that fire.”

Eddie’s heart rate climbs, and in horror he watches the discoloration spread, turning his throat the color of old leather.

* * *

Jeremy’s room is filled with nurses scrambling to calm his chaotic pulse. He’s sputtering, choking, struggling for breath. His vision distorts, turning the room and its inhabitants into macabre, malformed caricatures.

“You’re going to die,” a nurse says, her liquid features twisted into a grin that splits across her face.

Another nurse injects something into the IV attached to the inside of his elbow. “There’s nothing you can do about Eddie,” she tells him. “That’s what he’s going to become. You always knew that, didn’t you? That’s why you ran away.”

A terrified scream gargles in Jeremy’s throat. Through the thrum of his heartbeats, he hears the rapid beeps gaining traction.

The decay crawls up his arm.

* * *

“You dreadful child. Only a mother could love you!”

Eddie’s mother sits beside him in the backseat of the police SUV. Her skin is as pristine as it had been in life, but her eyes are bright with holy fire.

“You’re seeing things, aren’t you?” Mike’s voice sounds from the passenger seat and breaks through the hazy film of hallucination. “Focus on my voice, okay?”

Zebrowski steps on the gas, tires shrieking as they fly down the highway. He weaves them around other cars, zig-zagging between lanes while the siren whoops.

“Can you drive less like a maniac?” Mike shouts at him.

“C’mon, you know this is the most exciting thing we’ll ever do in this podunk town. Live a little.”

“You were always a wicked boy, Edward,” Ma crows, jabbing a crooked finger at him. “Filling your head with profanity and trash. Fornicating with that Stone boy. Living in sin!”

“Eddie!” Mike snaps his fingers to get Eddie’s attention. “Focus. Talk to me. Tell me about your favorite memory.”

Eddie thinks furiously, trying to drown out Ma’s voice in his head. “I, uh— I was with Jeremy, layin’ out in a field, starin’ at the clouds. He told me he liked me. We learned how to kiss.”

Ma’s voice is a furious growl. “You wretched child! You’re your father’s son: a failure through and through.”

“I liked him,” Eddie says, as though forcing the words out will banish Ma’s vitriol. “I liked having a secret from Ma. A secret she’d give me hell for.”

“You’re going to burn, Edward,” Ma says through grit teeth. “You think God won’t punish sinners?”

The SUV lurches to a halt, throwing Eddie into the back of the passenger seat.

“We’re here!” Zebrowski says.

The cemetery is empty, save for the dead. Eddie opens the door and flings himself out of the car. Mike and Zebrowski open the trunk and take out two shovels. Mike tosses one to Eddie. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Eddie sprints towards his mother’s grave, his heart and mind in full-scale panic mode. At any moment, the ghost sickness could stop his heart. Jeremy’s, too. As he runs, the world goes wobbly, like a picture on the TV that doesn’t come in right.

“You won’t do it,” Ma chastises him. “You’re no better than a whipped mutt. What else do you have in this God-forsaken world but your mother?”

Eddie reaches her grave and stabs the shovel into the ground. The soil gives way, softened by the snow. Ma has just been reburied, so the earth sifts easily. He digs and digs, fueled by adrenaline and rage. Hate boils inside of him. All of this—the crushing loneliness, the disaster of Eddie’s life, the decay eating away at his and Jeremy’s flesh—is Ma’s fault. She made him this way, made him unlovable by anyone else so she could point and say, “See, only a mother could love you.” But Jeremy found something worthwhile in Eddie, and if he’d ever told her she’d have destroyed that too.

Ma would rather Eddie be dead than be happy without her. And she’s willing to kill the people he cares about to keep him isolated and obedient.

Everyone has their breaking point. Eddie, it seems, has finally found his.

Zebrowski joins in the digging, and finally they unearth the coffin. Huffing and wheezing, Eddie helps Zebrowski haul out the casket. His heartbeat rumbles in his ears. Zebrowski throws open the coffin, exposing Ma’s rotted face. Mike shakes a bag of salt into her resting place, over her corpse.

“Your Pa knew who you really were,” Ma says. “Too fragile for this world. Why didn’t the good Lord take you instead of Isaac? You were damned the moment you left my womb.”

Eddie throws down the shovel before he bashes her putrid face in. Mike strikes a match and hands it to him. Eddie grabs it and tosses it into the open grave. The wood coffin catches fire, and the flames spread, crawling over Ma’s lifeless body.

The distorted haze in Eddie’s vision begins to fade, the sickness ebbing. He doesn’t hear her voice anymore. “I didn’t deserve what you did to me,” he sobs, dropping to his knees.

As Ma burns, part of Eddie burns with her.

 


	21. Chapter 21

The beeps on the heart monitor even out. Jeremy feels his pulse slow to a steady, resting rhythm. He takes a deep gulp of air. The deathly bruising fades from his skin with a tingle, like cigarette ash burning down to the filter. This apparent magic draws gasps from the room and hopeful cheers from those in the know.

“The kid pulled it off,” Casey says with a smile.

“Oh, thank God,” Mom wails. Grandma clutches her rosary beads and plants a kiss on the crucifix.

Jeremy sighs in relief and relaxes in this powerful moment of peace.

Baffled, one of the nurses detaches the IV from Jeremy’s arm, no longer needing calming drugs to pump to his heart. “If you need anything, just press the button, okay?” she tells him, sounding rattled by what she has witnessed.

After the medical personnel leave the room, Mom asks, “Does this mean it’s over? Are you alright?”

“I think so. Eddie must have… set things right.” Jeremy raises his arm and examines its familiar pale color under the bright fluorescent lights. He touches the skin, as though in disbelief that he has been healed. It feels soft and pliable, nothing like the waxy leather of corpse-skin from minutes ago.

The calm rate of his heart is a relief, too.

Half an hour later, Eddie returns to the hospital. The brightest, most vibrant smile Jeremy’s ever seen crosses Eddie’s face. “Oh sacred Mother of God, I wasn’t too late!” Eddie rushes to the bed and throws his arms around Jeremy, sobbing against his cheek. Jeremy holds Eddie while he whimpers, and it’s as if everything missing from his own life has been divinely restored. He has cheated death, and with it comes brand-new possibilities. He will do it all right this time. He will be good to Eddie and show him the love he deserves.

“Jer, I’m so sorry,” Eddie mewls, his tears staining the shoulder of Jeremy’s hospital gown.

“It’s not your fault,” Jeremy tells him. “You saved me.”

* * *

That night, Jeremy lies with Eddie in one of Grandma’s guest rooms. His body still hums with the ripples of release, and he holds Eddie close this time, fingers memorizing the valley of his spine. The faint mist of sweat on his skin evaporates with the chill in the air. “I never stopped thinking about you,” Jeremy admits. He’s particularly vulnerable tonight, probably a side-effect of escaping death.

“Me too.”

“You never stopped thinking about yourself? A bit selfish, Ed.”

Even Eddie makes a face at that one, like he has standards for humor all of a sudden.

“Hey, I’m not on my A-game tonight. You want jokes, go to Casey.”

“But you always made me laugh. Remember when you gave the middle finger in the senior class photo and it got printed in the yearbook?”

Jeremy doesn’t. Maybe that’s one of the memories dulled by the alcohol. “No, but if the yearbook staff didn’t catch it, I have no sympathy for them. That’s their job.”

A smile curls at the edges of Eddie’s mouth. “So what do you remember?”

“You,” Jeremy says, unable to resist the urge to be a cheesy motherfucker. “All those times we snuck off to make out. The way you smiled after I kissed you.”

“I still do that,” Eddie reminds him, like Jeremy might have forgotten the last twenty minutes.

“I hadn’t noticed.”

Eddie chuckles and slides a hand over Jeremy’s skin. Jeremy watches Eddie explore a body not his own, watches his fingers discover hills and valleys, dips and peaks. “Can I tell you something a little crazy?” Eddie asks.

Jeremy’s a little concerned about where this is heading, but he doesn’t want to discourage Eddie from honesty. “Of course.”

“I caught the ghost sickness too. When we were headin’ to the cemetery. It started right here.” Eddie points to a red spot on his throat that Jeremy made just minutes ago. “And I saw Ma, just as healthy as she was in life, rantin’ and ravin’ about how I did her wrong. Nearly scared me to death.”

“You saw her ghost?”

“I don’t think it was a ghost. Didn’t seem like a spirit, at least.”

So a hallucination, then. That fits with what Jeremy experienced, mind-numbing horror that jolted his heart into chaos. His worst fears packaged in an acid trip and a cocaine overdose.

“I saw things, too, towards the end,” says Jeremy. “If you hadn’t saved me…” He stops that one before it grows legs and starts walking all over his thoughts.

But Eddie’s not as slow as Harvest likes to think, and he catches the conversational nugget Jeremy was hoping to gloss over. “What did you see?”

You, becoming a madman.

Jeremy doesn’t believe it’s a coincidence that his dreams grew more gruesome as the ghost sickness took hold. If Mary’s ghost was trying to scare Jeremy to death, she almost succeeded.

The worst part is that the insanity encapsulated in those dreams feels like a logical path for Eddie to take. Some people are predisposed to psychological fractures, and Eddie already dug up his mother’s corpse to keep him company. Will more darkness leak through the cracks, or can he still be saved?

Jeremy shrugs. “Y’know, demons, zombies, werewolves. The usual suspects.”

* * *

 

_May 1973_

It was Jeremy’s eighteenth birthday, and Eddie had promised he’d meet Jeremy that night for a late celebration. As he’d feigned sleep in his bed, Eddie wondered what Jeremy had planned. Jeremy had been bragging about the car he received as a birthday present from his parents. Maybe he would pick up Eddie, and they’d just drive until they ran out of gas. At the time, Eddie wouldn’t have put it past him. Although they never talked about it since Jeremy brought up the subject months ago, Eddie knew Jeremy’s urge to escape Harvest was almost uncontrollable. Lately, Eddie felt that way too.

He’d told Jeremy he needed to stay home for Ma. And that had been partly true. The other part of him yearned for another life, a different life. Eddie knew if he stayed with his mother beyond his high school years, he would be seen as even more of an oddball. Already cast as the town mama’s boy, Eddie could never be taken seriously if he kept on the way he was. But when he thought about Ma, about how tirelessly she devoted her life to him and Isaac, about how heartbroken she’d been when Isaac disappeared, Eddie knew making a life on his own was as impossible as time travel.

After the house had been silent for a while, Eddie changed out of his pajamas and crept down the stairs. He knew how much pressure to exert on each step, careful not to make them groan too loudly beneath his weight. He sneaked through the house like a burglar and reached the front door. With a shaking hand, he turned the knob. His heart crashed against his ribs. If Ma caught him sneaking out…

A cold sweat broke across Eddie’s forehead. He eased the door open, hoping and praying it would not creak. The hinges were silent.

Outside, the sky was bleak and dark. He inched the door shut behind him and fled soundlessly into the night. Only the moon provided illumination. Eddie wondered what would happen if the moon was extinguished. Submersed in total darkness, could he ever find a way back home?

Eddie hurried through the fields until he reached the tree line. He could make out the vague shape of a vehicle behind the trees. As he moved closer, he identified Jeremy in the driver’s seat, which eased the tension racing through his chest. Jeremy saw Eddie approaching the car, and his face broke out into a grin.

Eddie slid into the passenger seat. The inside of the car was toasty warm to counteract the night’s chill.

“You actually made it,” Jeremy said, impressed by Eddie’s nerve.

“I said I would.”

“I figured you’d back out at the last second.”

Eddie frowned. It bothered him that Jeremy assumed that, though it wasn’t exactly wrong. He’d spent a good deal of time in his bed trying to psych himself up to do this. “Well, I didn’t.”

“I’m glad,” Jeremy said with a smile.

They drove to a lake on the other side of town. The stars were out in full force, and they stayed parked there amongst the trees for a while, gazing at the sky. The radio played music Eddie had never heard before, with wild guitars and raunchy lyrics. Ma definitely would not have approved, which only made Eddie more excited about this clandestine thing they were doing here.

“I’ll miss you when you’re gone,” Eddie said. At some point, they had moved to the back seat, and Eddie had taken the opportunity to move nearer to Jeremy, craving some form of closeness to another person.

“You still got Mike. Something tells me he’ll stick around for a while. And maybe you two can get closer when I’m out of the way. I think Mike feels like a third wheel most of the time.”

“What’s so wrong with that? Tricycles have three wheels, and they do just fine.”

Jeremy snickered. “Ed, you’re a trip.” As though reminded of something, he dug through the pockets of his jeans. When his hand reemerged, in his palm was a funny-looking cigarette. “Share with me?”

Eddie never had much interest in smoking, but alcohol was the only drug he deemed strictly off-limits. He’d seen what it did to Pa, how it turned him into a raging animal. How it slowly killed him.

Eddie nodded, and Jeremy withdrew a lighter from his other pocket and lit up. The smoke was sweet and tangy, nothing like the cigarettes Eddie used to smell on Pa’s clothes. Maybe it was a different brand; Eddie recalled seeing the wide variety of cigarettes behind the clerk at the gas station, their packs lined in neat rows.

Jeremy took a long drag from the cigarette and blew out a ring of smoke. Lazily, he handed the stick to Eddie, who grasped the butt with unpracticed fingers. “How’s your ma holding up?” Eddie asked.

Jeremy’s parents had been going through a separation, with his father moving out of the family home.

Jeremy sighed, the remainder of smoke billowing out of his nose and mouth. “She’s okay, I guess. But if she was hurting, she wouldn’t show it.”

Eddie took a puff, coughed as the smoke stung his lungs. “How come your pa left?”

“He was having an affair.” At Eddie’s confused look, Jeremy explained, “Having sex with someone else.”

“But he’s married.” Eddie pondered this for a moment. “Who’s the other woman?”

“I dunno. Maybe someone he works with?” Jeremy took back the cigarette for another pull. “Stop making me think about my dad having sex. It’s gross.”

Eddie laughed. “Sorry.”

A few minutes later, they finished the cigarette. When Jeremy moved in for a kiss, Eddie was more than happy to oblige. He loved the secret nature of their relationship, loved being able to explore his sexuality without Ma punishing him. After all, it wasn’t like she had railed against the idea of Eddie kissing and fornicating with other boys. Girls seemed to be the only targets of Ma’s purity rants. He figured he was in the clear, though he kept it secret anyway. For one, Jeremy had asked him to, and Eddie wasn’t one to break a promise. Second, given all the micromanaging Ma did with Eddie’s life, it felt invigorating to have something she couldn’t touch, something she didn’t even know existed.

Their hands fumbled beneath and over clothing. Fingers weaved into hair. Mouths joined and broke apart. Then Jeremy pulled Eddie into his lap. Eddie heard himself make a tiny stunned noise at that, and then at the slick kisses Jeremy pressed to his exposed chest. Eddie shifted in Jeremy’s lap, his hips grinding, seeking friction.

Kissing had always been as far as they’d gone, mostly because Eddie was afraid to go any further. He was certain Ma would somehow know he'd been sinful. He didn't know what the punishment would be, and he didn't want to find out. But Ma wasn’t here. Eddie could be as lustful as he wanted. There was no one around to stop him.

Jeremy always kissed him delicately, like Eddie might break if he pushed too hard, and tonight was no exception. His hands, however, were frantic, opening Eddie’s jeans and pushing inside greedily. Then Jeremy’s warm fingers wrapped around him, and Eddie’s wild gasp filled the car, sounding too loud in his own ears. Jeremy suckled at Eddie’s neck, as if he wanted to keep Eddie’s mouth free to gasp and moan and cry out. Eddie clung to him as Jeremy’s hand stroked and squeezed his cock. His dick pulsed at the touch, and Eddie wondered if Jeremy felt it too, the blood throbbing through his erection. He pushed his hips forward, needing more, and Jeremy squeezed him harder, his thumb teasing the head.

The stars exploded behind his eyes. Eddie shivered, cresting unceremoniously with a short gasp. He slumped against Jeremy, riding out the smooth honey-sting of his orgasm.

So that was sex? Eddie could definitely see why Ma forbid it. A guy could get used to that, for sure. But Ma always said, “If God had wanted us to enjoy the filthy act, He'd have made it pleasurable,” which Eddie now found suspect. What kind of sex was his mother having that didn't make her lungs seize and her toes curl and her body quake?

Eddie shut off that train of thought before it even got onto the tracks. Best not to involve Ma, however tangentially, in his sex life.

They stayed there in the back seat for a while. Eddie felt Jeremy’s soft breaths on his neck, and eased his hand down to return the favor. A satisfied groan escaped Jeremy’s throat. At first, Eddie found the angle a bit tricky, but Jeremy hummed and moaned with each movement of Eddie’s hand, so he was probably doing something right. Then came the swears, sighed at Eddie’s ear with intensity.

“Fuck… God—Shit, keep going,” Jeremy huffed, and his dirty mouth shouldn’t have turned Eddie on, but it did. His hand moved faster, harder, then it was over, with Jeremy making a noise Eddie definitely wanted to hear again.

Jeremy held him close as he caught his breath. Eddie pressed kisses to the side of his face, with Jeremy’s hands splayed over Eddie’s back.

They’d been so caught up in each other they never heard the other car approach.

A sharp rap on the rear window sent them into a panic. Eddie tried to dive for cover, while Jeremy yanked his jeans up over his hips. Standing outside the car, his flashlight blaring through the window, was Chief Parks.

Fear sliced through Eddie’s heart like a hot blade. If Ma knew about this…

“Shit, shit, shit,” Jeremy hissed, the harsh words no longer the benedictions they’d been just moments ago. He scrambled to roll down the window. “Hey, Chief,” Jeremy said, his breathing shaky from a mix of exertion and terror.

The flashlight beam lasered inside the car and hit Eddie’s cowering form like a spotlight. Icy panic nestled in Eddie’s gut.

_Ohgoshohbeansohgoshohbeans—_

“What seems to be the problem?” Jeremy said, trying to play casual with Chief Parks. If it worked, it was impossible to tell; the chief had an enviable poker face.

“Eddie? That you?” Chief Parks asked, his light still centered on Eddie. He got a whiff of the air inside the car, the smoke still permeating the interior, and a frown crossed his face.

“Don’t tell Ma, please,” Eddie mewled. He hadn’t realized he was crying until his voice hitched. “It’d break her heart, and she’s already had it broken plenty.”

Chief Parks’s frown didn’t uptick. “I don’t have much sympathy for your ma.”

Jeremy, perhaps seeing Eddie’s argument was losing steam, took over. “I don’t think she means any harm. She’s a little overzealous, but it’s just her way. She’s trying to look out for her son. You look out for Mike and Laurie, don’t you?”

There was the slightest softening of Chief Parks’s expression. Eddie couldn’t believe it. Could Jeremy actually talk them out of getting in trouble?

“Oh, hey,” Jeremy said, as though remembering something. “Did Mike finish that chemistry project? It’s due by the end of the week. I told him he could come over if he needed help.”

Chief Parks was quiet for a moment, then: “He might’ve mentioned something about that.” The beam of his flashlight jerked away from Eddie, scouring the rest of the car, as though searching for contraband. “Your mom doin’ okay?”

Jeremy shrugged much the same way he’d done when Eddie had asked. “I guess. She doesn’t smile as much, though. But maybe things will get better.”

Chief Parks nodded. “You tell your mom to call us if she needs anything. Vera’ll be happy to help.”

“Thanks. That means a lot to her.”

Chief Parks switched off the flashlight and fastened it to his utility belt. After a paralyzing moment of silence, he said, “Alright, I’m gonna let you two off with a warning. Nobody’s telling anybody’s mom or dad or what-have-you. It’s like it never happened.” He gave Eddie a pointed look. “But if I catch any more shenanigans, I’m gonna do my job and bring you both in. Are we clear?”

“Crystal, Chief Parks,” Jeremy said.

“You boys run on home now. It’s past curfew.” Chief Parks strolled back to his police cruiser. He got inside, started the engine, and drove off.

Eddie could not believe what he just witnessed. He’d been holding his breath through most of Jeremy and Chief Parks’ conversation, and he gasped an inhale. “How did you do that?”

“I guess I’m just good at fooling people,” Jeremy said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “I fooled my parents into thinking I’m straight.” He chuckled to himself, as though privy to a private joke.

“Are you fooling me?” Eddie wondered.

“I don’t need to. You already love me.”

A lopsided grin spread on Eddie’s face. “Yeah, I do.”


	22. Chapter 22

_November 1980_

Jeremy didn’t sleep well. Last night, while Eddie dozed, Jeremy examined all the questions and doubts, all the little idiosyncrasies that had seemed innocuous at first, and things began to shift a little.

Why did Mary make it her afterlife’s work to kill Jeremy? He had never been much of a presence in her life, if she knew he existed at all. Part of his and Eddie’s friendship was that they kept it secret from Mary. Unless she was stalking Eddie, she couldn’t have known the intensity of their relationship. So she probably wasn’t haunting Jeremy because he’d seduced her son or turned him into a “lustful adulterer.” Besides that, Jeremy left Harvest and never returned until after Mary’s death. Even if she knew about Eddie and Jeremy, she wouldn’t stick around in spirit on the off-chance Jeremy might turn up again. Something truly devastating had to bind her soul to this world, and since Mary died of a heart attack in her own home, her death wasn’t violent enough to warrant her spirit hanging around in limbo.

But she had given Jeremy’s last name during the seance. At the time, it didn’t seem like much. But coupled with the way Isaac’s body didn’t decompose, the timing of his parents’ problems, and something Zebrowski had said—”you paid some local boozer to dump the truck at a salvage yard’’—Jeremy has a sinking feeling in his gut.

He finds everyone gathered in the kitchen for breakfast. Eddie gives him a shy smile, and Jeremy returns it. Grocery store fliers are spread across the dining table as Mom clips out coupons for the upcoming weekend.

“I hope you’re not mad I nicked your recipe,” Casey says as Jeremy approaches the table, and Jeremy sees a familiar egg skillet dish on everyone’s plates.

“Nah, good on you. Can I talk with you for a sec? Outside?”

Casey pushes away from the table and joins Jeremy on the back porch. “Make it quick,” Casey says, hugging himself. “It’s cold as fuck out here.”

“There’s something that’s been bugging me. When you were married, did you ever think about cheating on your wife?”

Casey makes a face, but then his expression shifts, like he sees where Jeremy’s going with this. “Not seriously. Sometimes I’d see somebody hot, and I’d wonder what they’d be like in the sack, but that was as far as it went. I was happy with Lila. And don’t you think for a minute that she didn’t do the same thing, the fantasizing. But when you’re happy with each other and things are going fine, you don’t pursue someone else.” He looks at Jeremy. “Is this about your parents?”

“The whole affair story smells bogus. Maybe I’m naive, but I just don’t think Dad cheated on Mom. When he wasn’t at work, he was always home. So where did he find the time? Then the timing is weird: Dad’s alcoholism and Mom’s depression seemed to start after Isaac went missing. Plus all they ever argued about was Dad’s drinking. Maybe they fought about the other stuff when I wasn’t around. I don’t know. But I never felt any real animosity between them. And, I dunno, maybe I would’ve have felt it if it was there.”

Casey gives a ‘maybe’ nod. “I think kids can pick up on those vibes. Claire and I did. Our parents would come out to the kitchen in the morning, presumably after an argument, and they’d be real tense and quiet. We could just tell something was wrong.”

“Right. And I never felt that. Now maybe they were just pretending for my sake, but then why did my mom tell me they were getting a divorce because Dad cheated on her? If they were waiting until I moved out to split up, why tell me anything?”

“Maybe she was trying to explain your dad’s drinking problem?”

Jeremy says, “But that doesn’t make sense either. Why not just tell me the truth? Mom didn’t know how I’d react to hearing my dad cheated on her. What if I blamed her for not making him happy? What if I got pissed off at him and kicked his ass? What if I tried to track down the woman he cheated with?”

“Did you?” Casey wonders. “Try to find the other woman, I mean.”

“I never knew who it was.” Jeremy can’t shake how much that one bothers him. “Not even an idea, like a hooker or one of his students or another teacher he worked with.”

“Another dude? That might’ve been a pretty shameful secret back then.”

Jeremy isn’t sure. “I get the feeling Mom would have told me that. I think she knew I was gay—it’s not like I ever mentioned having a girlfriend or being interested in them. Maybe finding out my father had homosexual tendencies might have, I don’t know, helped me somehow. It could’ve been something I talked with him about, and maybe taken away some of the pressure of feeling like no one would accept me if they knew.”

Casey shivers. “Can we wrap this up? I’m turning into an icicle.”

“Sorry.”

Casey moves for the door, but he hesitates a moment before opening it. “If you’re really that curious, why don’t you ask him? See what shakes loose.”

So Jeremy does. He places a call to his father after breakfast and makes the two-hour drive to Milwaukee in Casey’s Oldsmobile.

Dad lives in a small, two-story house within walking distance of the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. From the outside, it looks calm and serene, the kind of place Jeremy imagines himself and Eddie inhabiting one day. He walks up the steps leading to the door and knocks.

Dad opens the door, clearly expecting him. He gives Jeremy a small smile, and Jeremy falls into a whirlwind of memories, of how many times he has seen his father smile that way. He recalls Thanksgivings and Christmases and birthdays, long nights of badgering Dad for help on a science project. “Jer, good to see you again,” Dad says, letting him inside.

The house is calm and still, with minimal decor. Mom was always the one to display family photographs and off-beat sculptures she found at garage sales. Jeremy looks at the nearly-bare walls. “Did you just move in?”

“No, I—I’ve been here a while.”

It doesn’t look that way, but Jeremy keeps his mouth shut on that particular matter. He sits on the couch, a drab beige loveseat with an odd stain on the arm.

“Get you a drink?” Dad asks, opening the fridge in the kitchen. “Something stiff to warm you up?”

Jeremy swallows back his knee-jerk reaction to drink away his anxieties. “No, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” Dad pops open a can of beer and sits in the recliner. He switches off the TV so they can talk. “If you don’t mind me saying, and I know we don’t talk about this a lot, but I’m glad you came back for Eddie. He needs someone like you to keep him straight.” The lilt in his voice says he’s not holding his first beer of the day. “I think you’re both a lot alike.”

Jeremy’s brain immediately jumps to the worst possible conclusion, and this suggestion terrifies him. “I guess you haven’t been keeping up with the Harvest news.”

“Oh, I know about Mary. Your mother never could resist sharing a juicy story.” Dad takes a long, thoughtful drink.

“And you think I might dig up a corpse for a plus-one tea party?”

“I’m saying you both need an anchor. Someone to keep you on the straight and narrow.”

Instead of going with his first instinct and cracking a joke about Dad’s frequent ‘straight’ talk, Jeremy tries a different tactic: “Why did you and Mom split up?”

Dad’s reaction is a brief pause. “I thought she told you.”

“Two sides to every story. I wanna hear yours.”

“I stepped out on her,” Dad says blandly. “Why does it matter now? Linda’s forgiven me. It was eight years ago. It’s over.” He takes another drink.

“Who was the other woman?”

“Why are you bringing this up now? It doesn’t matter, Jer. Put it to bed. Nothing good comes of digging up the past.”

“So I’ve heard,” Jeremy muses. “What was her name?”

Dad let loose a long breath. “Angela Torrance.”

The name doesn’t ring any bells. Probably not a Harvest resident, then.

“She worked with me at the university. She was my aide during the fall semester that year.”

Dad had been working at the University of Wisconsin-Stevens at the time. Jeremy will have to check his father’s alibi. And if this woman had been an aide, odds are she was younger than Dad. Isn’t that always the way?

“How did Mom find out?” Jeremy asks.

Dad exhales impatiently. “Why does it matter?” he says again. “All of this is in the past.”

“I’m just wondering,” Jeremy says, rising from the chair and beginning to pace. “I mean, what would this woman have seen in you? You were balding even back then. Plus you had a seventeen-year-old son. If she was as young as I think she was, she might have felt weird having someone close to her age calling her ‘mom.’ But maybe she could overlook that if you were rich.”

“Are you trying to say another woman couldn’t be interested in me?”

“I’m saying this whole affair scenario sounds like bullshit. Sorry, Dad, but you’re unremarkable.”

“And what would _you_ know about women?” Dad scoffs, sounding a mix of offended and outraged.

 _There we go_ , Jeremy thinks, but he decides to play dumb. “What are you talking about?”

“Drop the act. Your mother and I knew you were queer then, and we know it now.”

“That’s the first I’m hearing of it. Why didn’t you ask?”

Dad’s mouth tilts to one side. “Fathers don’t ask their sons things like that.”

“Then why didn’t Mom talk to me about it?”

“You’ll have to ask her,” Dad says, somewhat evasively. He finishes off the beer and crumples the empty can in his fist.

“And you were just fine with having a queer son?” Jeremy says, using Dad’s word. “Seems like something that might bother most dads. They might see it as a reflection on their own masculinity. Is that why you started drinking? Is that what you and Mom were always arguing about?”

“No. We argued about my indiscretions.”

“So how did she find out?”

“Find out what?”

Dad’s confusion strikes Jeremy as interesting, and it occurs to him that Dad might have something to hide beyond his affair.

“About your _indiscretions_.”

“I told her,” Dad says, and Jeremy thinks he hears relief in Dad’s voice.

“Really? Just like that? You couldn’t live with that on your conscience, so you ‘fessed up?”

“Are you calling your father a liar in his own house?”

“I’m just asking questions,” Jeremy says lamely. “And I find the timing a little suspicious.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, you guys started fighting right after Isaac disappeared. Don’t you think that’s weird?”

“Plenty of people go through hardships at the same time,” Dad says.

“Sure, but Harvest’s a small town. The odds are a little lower.”

Driving over here gave Jeremy time to think, to let his brain digest the information it’s accumulated in the past few days. Something about Isaac’s disappearance doesn’t add up. Eddie said he and Isaac argued over Eddie’s homosexuality. Then Isaac got in his truck and drove off. Where had he gone? Well, who would have been the first person Isaac suspected ‘turned’ his brother gay? Isaac must have seen Jeremy and Eddie hanging out together in school. Maybe he saw Jeremy drop Eddie off at the Lehrke house.

If Isaac had gone to the Stone house expecting to find Jeremy…

What if he found Dad instead?

“Did Isaac tell you about me and Eddie?” Jeremy asks.

That would be the only way Dad could have found out about Jeremy’s sexuality. Jeremy never talked about it, and he never had any “questionable” material under his mattress for his parents to discover. Eddie certainly wouldn’t have said a word. If Dad had suspicions, he or Mom would have had an awkward talk with Jeremy about if there were any girls he liked or about how it was okay if he had any questions about sex or dating. But none of that ever happened. If Dad knew Jeremy was gay back then, why had he kept quiet about it?

Dad closes his eyes, shaking his head. “You don’t understand. Your mother and I tried so hard… The pregnancy was difficult for her. There were so many times we almost…” He takes a deep breath. “So when you were born, I swore I would do whatever was necessary to protect you.”

Jeremy feels the world shift beneath his feet. The cotton balls in his throat harden into an asphyxiating wad. He drops into the chair as though someone cut his knees out from under him.

Dad inhales, blinking rapidly.

“Tell me what happened.” Jeremy doesn’t want to know, but he needs to.

Dad looks everywhere but at Jeremy. “Your mom was at the grocery. I was in the garage, working on the car. The oil needed changing… Isaac drove up and said he was looking for you. I told him you weren’t home yet, and he could either wait for you, or I could pass on a message. He seemed real agitated about something. I asked him what was bothering him, and that’s when he told me you were a… homosexual. So I asked how he knew that, and he said because you and Eddie were a couple.” Dad exhales a long sigh. “I don’t know if I believed him or not. Maybe part of me knew he was telling the truth. Maybe not. But it didn’t matter, because Isaac tried to blackmail me.”

Jeremy stops, momentarily thrown off-kilter. “Blackmail?”

“He said he would tell the whole school that you were gay unless I paid him off.”

“How much?”

“A thousand dollars. Which would be almost double that now. I thought about paying him—really, I did—but what would stop him from bleeding me dry if he knew I was willing to cough up the money? I had a family to provide for; I couldn’t justify giving some punk that much money for God knows how long just to keep his mouth shut. And something told me he would’ve gossiped anyhow.”

“So you killed him,” Jeremy says, each word slitting his throat on the way out.

Dad’s eyes clamp shut as though the memory is burning through his brain. “I knew what would happen if word got out you were gay. Even just the suggestion would have been devastating. You could have been killed.”

As if from a distance, Jeremy hears himself say, “You killed Isaac.”

“It happened so fast. I grabbed a pipe wrench off the workbench, one of those real weighty ones, and hit him with it ‘til he stopped moving.”

Disbelief swirls in Jeremy’s head. He came here with a hunch that his father had a hand in Isaac’s disappearance, but hearing it out loud and in detail makes his stomach turn. And yet a deranged part of him needs to know more.

“The body… How did you…”

“I put him in the crawl space, at least until I figured out what to do with him. His keys were still in the truck, so I drove it to a salvage yard outside of town. The kid running the place didn’t ask too many questions.”

“What did you do to his body?”

“I’m getting to that,” Dad says, aggravated by Jeremy’s impatience. “That night, while you and your mom were asleep, I brought him up from the crawl space and melted his body with sulfuric acid. I could have done it quicker if I’d added hydrogen peroxide, but all that gas produced by the reaction would’ve traveled through the vents. Without gas masks, you and your mother would have…

“Most of him turned into black sludge that drained away, but there were still some bones, mostly the big ones. I couldn’t leave him in there long enough to fully dissolve. I only had about a couple gallons of acid, and I didn’t want to leave him in the tub. The curtain was clear, remember, and if you or your mother went in the bathroom and noticed the murky shape behind the curtain, well, that would have been a mess. And what if your mother decided to take one of her early showers that morning? I couldn’t risk it. Too many variables.

“So I broke up the bones with a hammer and buried them back in the crawl space. For a while, I thought that was the end of it. The cops never questioned me, or anyone, really. They all assumed what I hoped they would: that Isaac ran away from that horrible mother of his.”

So that was where the rat gnawings on the bones came from: being buried in the crawl space.

“But you moved the bones,” Jeremy says, hanging on Dad’s every word. “Did you take them with you when you moved out?”

Dad nods slowly. “After the separation, I dug them up and buried them off the highway.”

“Why didn’t you just dissolve them again?”

“I was too nervous to take any more acid from the school’s surplus. Someone might notice, and it would only be a matter of time before they traced it back to me. But regardless, it didn’t feel right. I thought about how I would feel if someone had done that to you. Obliterated your whole body without a trace. Like you never existed. My father told me that in the war, they made sure to bring the bodies home so the families could mourn. People need something tangible in order to move on. I guess I hoped one day Mary and Eddie could have that kind of closure.”

Jeremy opens his mouth, closes it. For a moment, he has absolutely no idea what to say. He stands up again, needing to dispel the adrenaline surging in his veins.

“That’s why you started drinking,” says Jeremy. “You couldn’t handle taking the life of another person. So you tried to drown out the memories or the guilt or both. And you made up this phony affair story so Mom wouldn’t know what really happened.”

“Do you think I’m proud of this? Killing that boy destroyed my life. I couldn’t even look my own son in the eye. I lost my entire family.”

“Are you looking for pity?”

“No, I just want you to understand. What I did, I did to protect you.”

Jeremy scoffs. “From what? A bunch of high-school idiots? In a few months, I would have been out of there anyway.”

“In a small town like that…” Dad tightens his fists. “You knew you couldn’t even talk about it back then. Even now it’s still dangerous. People have been killed for being gay, you know.”

“You’re raising a pretty fucked-up ethical dilemma here,” Jeremy says. Preemptively murdering someone because they might do something that leads to a crime is generally frowned upon. It definitely wouldn’t play for a jury.

“There’s no such thing as an ethical dilemma when it comes to protecting your child.”

Jeremy wants to disagree with that, but it’s not like he has kids. Maybe it’s the sort of mindset you can only grow into with experience.

But a small part of him almost understands Dad’s rationale. Jeremy thinks about Eddie now and knows he would cross a hell of a lot of barriers to keep him safe.


	23. Chapter 23

After the house has quieted, Casey heads upstairs to check on Eddie. Eddie resides in one of the guest rooms. He’s sitting on the bed with Patches in his lap, brushing the knots and dirt out of the dog’s fluffy white fur.  
  
Eddie looks up as Casey’s form passes by the open door. “Hey.”  
  
“Hey yourself. I see you took the Grandma suite,” Casey says, stepping into the room and taking in the senior citizen aesthetic. The room is disgustingly vintage, with a lace-trimmed canopy and pillow shams. The quilt is a soft conventional white. There are Victorian table lamps, and a flower-patterned bedskirt and curtains and even the floor rug.   
  
“The other guest room doesn’t look like this?” Eddie asks.  
  
“It’s a bit more… contemporary.” Casey sits on the ottoman at the foot of the bed. “How’re you holding up?”  
  
“Been a whole lot better.”  
  
“I know what you mean. I hated my father, but I still cried at his funeral. Even though he smacked me around and called me all sorts of names, I still wanted to make him proud. But he died before I could earn his love. Then when my son David was born, I took one look at that kid and knew ‘earning’ your parents’ love is bullshit. A real parent loves you the minute you’re born. Unconditionally.”  
  
Eddie smiles sadly. Patches is completely relaxed, his eyes closed in bliss. “I loved Ma my whole life. How am I supposed to go from that to hating her? How can you hate the woman who’s your reason for being alive?”  
  
“Hate just burns you out. When I think about my dad now, I feel more pity than hate. He didn’t have the tools or perspective to do better. He was raised with a bad playbook full of philosophies like ‘suck it up and move on’ and ‘be a man.’ He wouldn’t reach out of his comfort zone and listen to my mom when it came to raising kids. So as much as I dislike and disagree with him, looking back I can see he was just the product of his own upbringing and the time period he was raised in. Doesn’t make it right, but that makes it easier to understand. I bet your mom was pretty much the same way.”  
  
Eddie nods as he untangles a knot in Patches’s fur. “Why’d you name him Patches? He’s all one color.” As if realizing something, he asks, “Was that one of your pets’ names?”  
  
A memory resurfaces from the darkness where Casey has buried it, overwhelming the here and now:  
  
 _David's frantic footsteps pounded down the hall as he hurried toward Casey's home office. Casey looked up from his desk to see his young son excitedly clutching a marker-stained paper to his chest._  
  
“What'cha got there, buddy?” Casey asked.  
  
“I drew you a picture for your work fridge,” David said, still holding the picture close, as though protecting classified government secrets.  
  
Casey chuckled. “What makes you think I have a fridge at work?”  
  
“Mommy says people who make a lot of money have them.”  
  
“Well, I don't have a fridge at work. And if I did, I'd be the only person who sees your drawing. I think we should put it on our fridge so everyone can see it.”  
  
David looked pleased by this, proud of his efforts, so Casey held out a hand for the drawing.  
  
“Let me see.”  
  
David handed over the picture. At six years old, his imagination was boundless, fueled by the numerous fantasy books he read (and had read to him), and that creativity expressed itself in drawings of fantastical creatures. Two purple horns jutted out from the animal's head, its deerlike body colored with different shades of blue and purple. It had the face of a dog, and its long, neon blue tail exploded out of its backside like palm fronds.   
  
“Wow, that's really cool, my man! Is that a dragon?”  
  
David laughed, because, of course, Casey was an idiot. “No, he's half dragon and half deer and half dog. His name is Patches, and he's from outer space.”  
  
“Outer space, huh? How'd he get here?”  
  
“'Cause his wings burned up in our atmosphere”—David explained, clearly repeating a word he'd learned from science class—“and now he's my friend.” He comes around to Casey's side to point at some round things in the background of the drawing. “See, I drew the planets 'cause he's from space.”  
  
“It looks great, champ,” Casey said, still awed by the silly things his child did every day, dumbstruck by the concept that he took part in the creation of this tiny person.  
  
“Can we put it on the fridge now so Mommy will see it when she gets home?”  
  
The memory is potent enough to kick at the walls of Casey's defense and denial. His throat swells with the sudden onset of emotion rising to the surface.  
  
“Patches was the name of David’s imaginary friend,” Casey tells Eddie's expectant, worried face.   
  
“Oh.” Eddie seems to comprehend the undertones of that sentence, and he wears an expression with the proper solemnity. “I'm sorry. How long have you...” He pauses, searching for the right turn of phrase. “Missed him?”  
  
“Fifteen months.” Casey keeps time with impeccable precision, like a prisoner counting the days he's been locked behind bars. Knowing Eddie is likely curious about the circumstances, Casey adds, “Before you ask, it was a car accident. Drunk driver. We were on our way home from a Cubs game... versus the Giants.” Odd, the things he remembers about the worst day of his life: the game's final score (8-2 Cubs), the crumpling steel as the BMW crashed into the passenger side where David was sitting, the imploding windows raining down glass, the torn steel of the roof slicing into his knees, his son's crumpled body.  
  
“I spent two weeks in the hospital wishing I had died, too. But I couldn't hurt Lila like that. I wasn't the only one who lost a son.”  
  
Eddie's gaze flicks to Casey's hands, probably checking for a wedding ring and finding none, then back to his face. “Did something happen to her too?” he asks with an edge of terror, like he expects everyone's life story to be as tragic and horrible as his own.  
  
Casey shakes his head. “She's alive and well, if that's what you're wondering. But most marriages aren't built to survive the loss of a child. And during that first year... I didn't make it easy on her. I felt like she blamed me, since I was with David when it happened. Of course she never said that, but guilt doesn't have to be rational.”  
  
Even the dog watches Casey with pained eyes, and it reminds him of Lila's pitying gaze, how she'd watched him lost in his loss for over a year, and how she, for her own sanity, had to leave.  
  
“How'd you make it through?” Having lost his mother and his brother, Eddie's probably struggling through the crushing burden of simply living day to day. He's a decent faker, but Casey can tell half of Eddie is dead. “That empty feeling… It goes away, right?”  
  
There are a few times when you can truly connect with another human being; you just have to tell the truth.  
  
Casey says, “Yeah.”  
  
Maybe next time.

* * *

 

Jeremy wakes up sprawled in the backseat of Casey’s Oldsmobile, parked in the empty lot of a condemned apartment building. Crushed empty beer cans litter the interior of the car. The sky is painted in the pink and blue slashes of early morning, the sun beginning its ascent. For a few blissful seconds, his booze-logged brain takes a while to remember how he ended up like this, then the horror comes rushing back in a devastating wave.

He’d left Dad’s house in a sort of trance, operating on auto-pilot and heading to a gas station, where he apparently filled up the tank and bought a case of Coors. Then he drove somewhere secluded and drank himself into numbness.

How the fuck is he going to tell Eddie? Or should he even tell Eddie at all? Sometimes ignorance truly is bliss.

Oh Christ, what about Mom?

Jeremy hauls himself into a sitting position and forces himself to think straight. Try to detach and look at this coldly. How would he handle any other fucked-up situation?

Call Casey.

Maybe Casey could find Dad a good lawyer, and they could work out some sort of deal with the courts. But does Jeremy want to be the one to disrupt his mother’s life with this revelation? Knowing the truth won’t give Mom closure or anything in the realm of a positive emotion. It will only bring hurt. It will only destroy.

But Jeremy doesn’t like his mother shacking up with a murderer. Even if it was to protect him, Mom would be heartbroken if she knew the father of her child was a killer.

And Eddie needs this burden lifted. Mary told Eddie that Isaac’s disappearance was his fault, which he believes to this day. Wouldn’t it be a weight off his shoulders if he knew the truth?

Then Eddie would blame Jeremy…

Jeremy doesn’t trust himself to drive still half hungover, so he walks a few blocks to a nearby diner and tries to sober up with some coffee. After a few cups, he’s not feeling any better, so he heads outside to the closest phone booth. He drops a few coins into the slot and dials Grandma’s house.

Mom answers the phone, and it takes all Jeremy has not to break down at the sound of her voice.

“Mom, it’s me. Is Casey still there?” Stupid question, as Jeremy’s the one currently driving Casey’s car. How would he have left, a bus? “Can you put him on?”

But Mom, of course, hears the strain in Jeremy’s voice, no matter how he tries to hide it. “Jer? Is something wrong?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Is it your father? Is he alright?”

“Everything’s fine,” Jeremy lies. “I just need to talk to Casey. It’s about Eddie.”

Mom agrees and hands over the phone.

“What’s up?” Casey says, clearly unprepared for whatever Jeremy’s going to say.

“I….” Jeremy’s also pretty unprepared himself. How is he supposed to explain this? He needs more time. “You have to come here.”

“Where’s the fire?”

“It’s my dad,” is all Jeremy can manage.

Casey makes a contemplative noise. “Alright, tell me where you are. I’ll have to take Eddie’s truck.”

“Make sure he doesn’t come with you.”

“Okay…” Casey doesn’t know what to make of that. “You’re the boss.”

Jeremy gives Casey his location, and Casey promises he’ll be there.

Jeremy heads back to the car and nods off in the backseat.

He awakens hours later to Casey knocking on the window. Groggily, he rolls down the window. “What’s the problem, officer?”

Casey leans forward, peering into the car. “Lookin’ for a good time?” He takes in Jeremy’s haggard appearance, and the empty beer cans strewn throughout the backseat, and the levity drops off his face. “Jeez, what happened?”

Casey climbs into the car, and Jeremy tells him everything.

“Holy fuck,” Casey says with an exhale when it’s all said and done. “Dude, I am so sorry.”

Jeremy wipes his eyes, which have shed new tears throughout the rehash of his visit to Dad. “Tell me what to do. I don’t know what the fuck to do, and you always seem to have the answers when shit goes sideways.”

“I’m not that kind of counselor.”

“What would you do, then? If you were me.”

Casey opens his mouth, as if to spout a joke, but stops himself. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t think twice about turning my dad in. But you have to figure this one out for yourself. There are no easy answers. If you have to make a choice between a pretty lie or an ugly truth, you’d better decide which one you can live with.”

Jeremy avoids that kind of serious introspection for now. “What about my dad? If I turn him in, could you be his lawyer?”

“I think that would be a pretty hefty conflict of interest, considering I’m still Eddie’s attorney of record.”

Of course. That was a stupid question. Jeremy’s not thinking straight. Dad could find another lawyer; other than himself Jeremy trusts Eddie to no one but Casey.

Jeremy sinks against the worn leather seat. As his body shifts, the empty cans clank against each other.

Casey studies the debris. “Don’t junk up my car.” He kicks one of the cans over to Jeremy’s side of the back seat. “Let’s get you cleaned up and halfway sober so Eddie doesn’t think you’re a total lost cause.”

Jeremy considers protesting the point, arguing that there’s no way he’s going back to Eddie after all this. But abandoning Eddie again would make Jeremy the king of all dickheads. The Six Million Dollar Dickhead. As strong as Jeremy’s urge is to run away, Eddie loves him and needs him in order to be happy and remotely well-adjusted. And somehow this fact doesn’t feel like a burden the way it had all those years ago, when Jeremy felt smothered and confined by Eddie’s needy nature. He wanted to venture out and see the world, and now that he’s seen it he finds it lacking. There was nothing out there he hadn’t already found in Harvest, just more noise and bright colors and distractions. Without Eddie, Jeremy’s life was empty, full of unfulfilling relationships; he only connected with Casey because they shared a deep, unfathomable grief.

Jeremy isn’t running away again.

Casey takes him to a nearby fried chicken joint, where Jeremy nourishes his starving stomach. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until that first bite, after which he promptly devoured two enormous pieces of chicken. They stay there for a while, occasionally ordering sides of macaroni, cole slaw, and mashed potatoes when hunger returns. Their conversations circle the proverbial airport of discussing what has happened, never really touching on it but still dipping into its themes.

Jeremy finishes off another piece of chicken. “Can I tell you something I’ve never told anyone?”

“Even Eddie?”

“Especially Eddie.” Jeremy grimaces and wipes the grease off his fingers with a napkin.

“Fire away.”

Jeremy leans in as though they’re discussing classified nuclear launch codes. “When we were kids—me and Eddie—there were times when he’d talk about what his mother did to him, or the ideas she put into his head, and I wanted to kill her. I mean really kill her. ‘Cause it’s not like the cops were gonna do anything. Child abuse was just called ‘discipline’ back then. So I had to be the one to save him.” He sighs, puffs a chunk of hair out of his eyes. “Of course I couldn’t actually do it. Mary was horrible, but she was Eddie’s world. And I kind of hoped he’d see the light. I wanted him to realize how backwards she was. I guess he did, but it wasn’t enough.”

“He torched her corpse to save you,” Casey points out. “That’s gotta count for something.”

Jeremy nods, but he wonders if Eddie regrets the sacrifice.

“All of this is horrible, by the way, but it doesn’t answer the bigger question: why did Mary’s ghost target you?”

“Because my dad killed her son.”

“Right, but how did she know that?”

Jeremy doesn’t have an answer.

It’s now the middle of the afternoon, and the sun struggles to burn away the hazy fog of winter. While Casey’s gnawing on a drumstick, Jeremy heads out of the restaurant to a phone booth on the same block. He tosses in some change and calls his father.

The answering machine picks up, which eases Jeremy’s nerves, since he wasn’t sure what he would have said if Dad had answered.

“Hey, it’s me. I’m sorry I stormed out on you like that. I guess… I just wanted to say I don’t hate you. You’re still my dad. You were just trying to do what you thought was best for me.”

Dad became a drunk to smother the guilt Isaac’s murder caused. Jeremy knows what that’s like, and he thinks if he can alleviate some of the guilt, if he can assure his father he’s not going to the police or holding this against him, maybe Dad can begin to heal.

Jeremy scratches at a chip in the blue paint of the pay phone. “I’ve made mistakes too. I stayed away from a lot of people when I shouldn’t have. When it comes down to it, all we have in life are the connections that we make. I wanna try to reconnect with you, Dad, if you want. I’ll be at Grandma’s for the next day or two, so… yeah. Okay. Love you. Bye.”

Around sunset, Jeremy makes the drive back to Cedar Pass. Surrounded by the picturesque Wisconsin landscape, it’s easy for him to fall into his own head, ruminating over the same thoughts as though on a hamster wheel of consciousness. He still doesn’t know what to say to Eddie when he gets back to the house. Should he tell Eddie the truth? Would he have wanted Dad to tell the truth instead of hiding it all these years? Tough to say. Eddie’s already been through so much. What right does Jeremy have to dump more pain on him?

But what Jeremy wants more than anything is to make a life with Eddie. Lies ripple and reverberate and never truly go silent. Jeremy understands why Dad lost himself in alcohol, trying to numb the pain of a lie forever perched on his shoulder. Faced with lying to Eddie for the rest of his life, Jeremy can see those circumstances unfolding for him, too.

_A pretty lie versus an ugly truth._

Jeremy’s still undecided when he arrives at Grandma’s house.

Inside, he finds Eddie wearing one of Jeremy’s sweatshirts. It’s a little big on him, and something about this subtle need of Eddie’s to be close to Jeremy in some fashion pierces his heart. Eddie is sitting with Grandma on the couch, both of them crocheting small items, but he looks up and grins when Jeremy enters the room.

“You’re back!” Eddie cheers. Jeremy swallows back the lump forming in his throat at the sight of Eddie’s exuberant face. “How was your trip?”

Jeremy settles on, “Enlightening. But enough about me. What’re you two up to?”

Eddie holds up his yarn project. “Thought I’d make myself a scarf, seeing as it gets pretty cold around here without one.”

Grandma says, “Did you know Eddie is quite the craftsman? He’s even teaching me a few things.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I can’t take all the credit,” Eddie says sheepishly. “Ma taught me most of what I know. But I have a few tricks myself.”

Jeremy sees the calm joy on Eddie’s face. He wants so badly to just forget about all of this and live with Eddie as though the last week never happened.

But Eddie is perceptive enough to read Jeremy’s minute distress. “What’s wrong?”

“I have to tell you something.”

“It’s bad?”

Jeremy nods.

“Let’s hear it, then.”

Jeremy takes Eddie upstairs to the guest room. He shuts the door behind them. Eddie sits on the edge of the bed, braced for whatever’s coming. Jeremy sits beside him, then, thinking better of himself, scoots away a bit. Eddie will not find Jeremy’s presence a comfort after he speaks.

There isn’t much else he can do but just say it. Eddie cries but does not sob, which is somehow worse, as though he’s too broken to properly mourn. He asks questions every now and then, and Jeremy answers them the best he can. When he’s finished, they’re quiet for a long time, the silence punctuated by Eddie’s occasional sniffles. Jeremy tries to speak, to apologize, but he can’t.

Eddie reaches out and covers Jeremy’s hand with his own. This simple gesture snips the remaining thread holding Jeremy together, and he sobs. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Immediately, Eddie embraces him, like seeing Jeremy in pain is too much for him to bear. Eddie holds him tightly and cries with him, his face buried in Jeremy’s shoulder. The self-sabotaging part of Jeremy wants to push away. He doesn’t deserve Eddie’s sympathy or affection. But Jeremy can’t surrender this moment of tenderness.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Jer,” Eddie says. “It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not yours either. Your mom was wrong.”

Eddie sniffles.

“That’s why I had to tell you. You needed to know it wasn’t your fault. And I couldn’t live with lying to you, even if the lie would keep you from hating me forever.”

“I could never hate you..” Eddie clutches him tighter. “I love you too much for that.”

Jeremy cannot truly hear that right now. He tucks it away in his memory with a promise to revisit this admission later when he can appreciate it.

“Not even Ma could stop me,” Eddie says, his voice a quiet murmur. “When Isaac was gone, she begged me never to love anyone as much as she loved him. But it was too late. ‘Cause I was already crazy about you.”

“I’ve destroyed your whole life by just being a part of it.”

“That’s a real sad way of lookin’ at it.” Eddie pulls back a bit to look at Jeremy. Jeremy ducks his head, hiding his face behind his hair. “You were my best friend. That’s pretty important. Sometimes I think about what I’d be like if I never met you, and it scares me.”

 _Me too_ , Jeremy wants to say.

“Are you gonna tell anybody else? About your dad, I mean.”

Jeremy doesn’t know. “That’s up to you.”

Eddie pulls his hands into his lap, begins to play with the worn cuffs of his sweatshirt. “As much as a man ought to own up to what he’s done, it doesn’t feel right to hurt you and your folks like that. If your poor ma found out about all this…” He shakes his head. “Take away his confession, and there ain’t much to tie him to Isaac. All circumstantial, as they say. Maybe we shouldn’t go diggin’ up the past anymore.”

Grateful, Jeremy nods. “Well, if you change your mind, I’ll be okay with that.”


	24. Chapter 24

It all starts to go wrong later when Mom comes back from the grocery store. Eddie helps her unload the bags. Grandma has gone to the library, and Casey still isn’t back yet, presumably tending to court-related business.

Jeremy remembers Dad’s confession: _Your mom was at the grocery. I was in the garage, working on the car. The oil needed changing…_

“Jer,” Mom says, “I bought some things you might be able to use for dinner, if you feel like cooking tonight.”

“I… Yeah, sure.” Mindlessly, he moves into the kitchen and helps put away the groceries. His brain takes all the little pieces from the past week or so and shifts them around. The picture it creates is worse than before.

“You wouldn’t believe how crowded the store was,” Mom says. “As if all of Gumberry County decided to go grocery shopping today.”

“Those coupons might’ve had something to do with it,” Eddie points out politely.

“I suppose so, but I thought I was playing it smart, going the day after the ads came out.” Mom shakes her head, sheds her coat on the rack near the door. “How was your visit with your father, dear? Did you get to see much of the city?”

“Saw some while I was driving through,” says Jeremy. “It’s nice, I guess.”

“You’re too spoiled,” Mom scolds playfully, “living in a big city like Chicago. Nothing shy of New York or Los Angeles would impress you.”

Jeremy tries a smile, but it’s just not happening. When the groceries have been put away, he says to Eddie, “Would you mind taking Patches for a walk?”

Eddie seems to understand this is Jeremy’s way of asking for privacy. “No problem. C’mere, boy. We’re goin’ out.” He clips the leash onto the dog’s collar. Patches practically drags Eddie out the front door, his toenails clattering against the hardwood floor.

Mom sits at the kitchen table and flips through newspapers and weekly ads. Jeremy debates internally how to best approach this conversation, but there’s really no other way than just plowing straight through.

“Dad told me what happened to Isaac.”

Jeremy studies Mom’s face, watching for a tell. Sure enough, there’s more anger than confusion in her expression, mottled on her brow. “What are you talking about?”

“He told me he killed Isaac.”

“That’s impossible,” Mom declares, shaking her head like she’s trying to shake away the words. “Peter would never kill anyone.”

“You’re right. But he might cover it up.” Jeremy stares right through her. Mom freezes. “Dad’s story was pretty much airtight, but there were two problems. One, he said on the afternoon of Isaac’s murder, you were at the store. But you never went grocery shopping on the weekdays. Isaac was killed on a Tuesday.”

Mom scoffs, still shaking her head. “This is ridiculous. That’s supposed to be proof?”

“Second,” Jeremy forges on, “Dad said he killed Isaac by hitting him with a pipe wrench. But the coroner’s report said strangulation was the likely cause of death.”

“Jeremy Patrick Stone, you are out of line!”

“The only reason Dad would say he killed Isaac through blunt force trauma is if he didn’t know Isaac had been strangled.” Jeremy takes a step closer. “Like he covered it up for someone else.”

“Me? Are you accusing me?” Mom gasps, playing apoplectic. “You’d accuse your own parents of murder?”

Jeremy softens his approach. He won’t get anywhere with hard accusations. He could poke at the beehive of his father’s anger, but that won’t work with Mom. “You did it to protect me, didn’t you? Isaac was blackmailing you, threatening to tell the school—and probably the whole town—I was gay.”

Mom’s eyes are wet, but her posture is impossibly straight.

“Tell me how it happened.”

Mom closes her eyes. A tear slides down her cheek and leaves a wet trail through her makeup. “You don’t have children, Jer. You don’t understand how—”

Jeremy holds up a halting hand. “I know, Dad already gave me the big speech.”

Mom sniffles, starts blinking. “Isaac came over to the house looking for you. Your dad was still at work. Isaac asked if you were home, but I told him you weren’t. He got angry and started telling me if I knew I’d raised a…” She shakes her head. “I won’t repeat it, but I’m sure you’ve heard it.” Her expression twists into anger as she remembers the incident. “He sounded just like his rotten mother, going on about morality and how God was going to punish us for raising a sinner. He told me you corrupted his brother.” Mom laughs a harsh sound. “Can you believe that? _You_ corrupting Eddie? You were good to him. Mary’s the one who corrupted him—both of them, with all that fear-mongering nonsense!”

Mom clenches her fists under the table.

Jeremy waits for her to continue.

“Then Isaac tried to blackmail me. It was like you said: he would tell the whole school about you unless I paid him off.” Mom blinks away tears, looking out at the back porch. “I’ve gone over it a million times. I try to imagine if paying him off would have kept him quiet. But I think in that moment, deep down, I knew he would just keep at it. So I told him to follow me into the garage. I said your father kept a stash of money he thought I didn’t know about. Either Isaac was too greedy to see it was a trick, or he thought I was harmless. Maybe both. I grabbed one of your father’s wrenches off the workbench and hit Isaac on the back of the head. He fell to the ground. I thought he was dead. He didn’t move for a while. But then he came to. So I used a rope and strangled him.”

“It takes a lot of strength to strangle someone.”

“He was on the ground, so I had the advantage. I stepped on his back to keep him down, and the more he struggled the quicker he ran out of air.”

Jeremy forces himself to breathe. “Did my dad discover the body?”

“No. I put Isaac in the crawl space while I tried to think of what to do. But I didn’t know the first thing about getting rid of a body. Just dragging him down there was agonizing. I knew I couldn’t carry him into the trunk of the car, lift him out, and dig a grave somewhere. So when your father came home, I broke down and told him what happened. He said he’d take care of it.”

“So he got rid of the truck and the body?”

“I didn’t ask questions about how he did it. I didn’t need to know.”

His parents reconnecting after all these years makes more sense now. Nothing bonds a family like a deep, dark secret.

“Whatever he did took its toll on your father,” Mom says. “Knowing what I did… His drinking got out of control. We couldn’t handle being in the same room with each other. Our marriage fell apart. The affair story was Peter’s idea. He thought it would be the easiest way to explain things to you.”

“Was the divorce a lie too?”

“Partially. We just went our separate ways. On paper, we’re still married.”

A sickening realization rolls through Jeremy. “Because a spouse can’t be forced to testify against the other in court.”

“Did you learn that from your lawyer friend?”

There’s still one nagging question. “Mary’s ghost gave my last name as the person she wanted to hurt. Why would she do that? Did she suspect you and my dad had something to do with Isaac’s disappearance?”

Mom’s tears begin anew. “I confessed to her.”

Jeremy almost doesn’t believe he’s hearing correctly. “But you hated her. Or was that the point?”

Mom shakes her head again. “It wasn’t out of revenge. As cruel as she was, she was still a mother who lost a son. I thought she deserved to know what happened to her boy.”

The heart attack. Mary sold the butcher shop due to the work stressing her weak heart. With her numerous righteous tirades against the evils of man, and the agony of holding onto hope for so many years, the devastating news of her son’s death snipped the final thread holding her heart in place.

“Do you know your confession killed her?” It comes out harsh, but Jeremy doesn’t care.

Mom looks wounded.

“She had a heart attack. Probably right after you left. She never even got to tell Eddie what happened to his brother.” Jeremy’s anger swells to a boil. “If you felt so guilty about it, why didn’t you go to the cops?”

“If I tell the police, I destroy my family, and Eddie’s, too. If I don’t…”

“Eddie deserved to know it wasn’t his fault. And what if Mary had gone to the police after you told her?”

“Who would have believed her? There was no one else in the farmhouse when I confessed; Eddie was off doing chores for the Beaumonts. I didn’t tell her where the body was—I didn’t know—so it would have just been her word against mine. Peter and I were respected members of the community; the cops wouldn’t have seriously suspected us. They would have brushed Mary off as a delusional old woman, the same way they did when Isaac went missing.” Mom looks at Jeremy, sees the agony slashed across his face. “Put yourself in my shoes. If someone threatened to hurt Eddie, what would you do?”

And the worst part is, Jeremy knows.

He turns away and heads for the front door. Jeremy takes a brief glance behind him. Mom looks at him as though she wants to say something to mend this enormous rift between them. But Jeremy has lost his parents. No words will change that.

He steps outside and finds Eddie guiding Patches up the walkway. Eddie stops when he sees Jeremy’s face. “What’s wrong?”

Jeremy shakes his head. The cold stings his wet eyes. “Why don’t we get outta here? Pack your things, and when Casey comes back we’ll stay somewhere nice ‘til all this pans out.”

“Did something happen?”

“Yeah, my mom…” Jeremy inhales, readies himself to tell Eddie one final lie. “Turns out she’s not thrilled about you and me… together.”

Does Eddie believe that? Hard to tell. Eddie’s clearly skeptical, but it’s not like small-town homophobia is unheard of. “She’s kicking us out?”

“She’d never say it, but that’s the idea.”

As much as seeing Eddie’s pain hurts Jeremy, the truth would wound Eddie a million times worse. Eddie trusted this woman, slept in her house and shared meals with her, and all the while she’d been the one who murdered his brother.

“Where will we go?”

“We’ll figure something out,” Jeremy says.

Eddie doesn’t seem satisfied with this answer. “You lost your whole family.”

“The cool thing about family is you get to choose who’s part of it. You and Casey are my family.”

Patches whines.

“And you too, Patches.”


	25. Chapter 25

_February 1981_

February has come and, with it, the last hurrahs of winter. Chicago is alive with the anticipation of spring, as pedestrians clad in coats and scarves shuffle along the city streets. Jeremy watches the night bustle from the window of his apartment as he pipes red roses onto a heart-shaped cake. Today is the day before Valentine’s Day, and Jeremy has set aside this night as a celebration for the most important people in his life.

Eddie meticulously places silverware and dishes around the round dining table. The dining area is too compact for proper entertaining, but it comfortably seats four, which is all they need tonight. Casey and his partner at the law firm, Angelo, are set to arrive soon.

Casey gave Eddie a temporary gig manning the front desk of his office while the receptionist is out on maternity leave. Maybe it will turn into a permanent position. Time will tell. But for now Eddie seems to be adjusting well to city life. For Eddie, moving in with Jeremy was no trouble, since the farmhouse fire destroyed most of his possessions. He has built up a small collection of items picked from garage sales, thrift stores, and specialty shops. He still crochets on occasion, though most of his free time is spent with Jeremy, getting acquainted to this new, vibrant city he calls home.

The charges against Eddie for Pamela Sharkey’s murder were dropped by the time December rolled around. As Mike Parks predicted, DA Bates didn’t think he had a solid enough case to go to trial. And Peter Stone’s bombshell confession regarding the disappearance and murder of Isaac Lehrke proved too juicy a case to pass up. Dad was offered a plea bargain in exchange for naming an accomplice, but he turned it down, swearing he had been the sole perpetrator in the crime. He has since plead guilty and ekes out a life sentence at Columbia Correctional Institution in Portage, Wisconsin.

Jeremy visited Dad once at the prison. Seeing his father in prison blues, surrounded by stone-faced guards and burly inmates was too much for Jeremy to handle. They exchange letters though, as Jeremy wants to keep his promise and maintain a connection with his father.

As for Mom, she will simply have to live with the guilt. Will it eat her alive the same way it did for Dad? Will she feel the burden of Dad’s imprisonment as well as Isaac’s murder and Mary’s death? Was Mom simply acting in a moment of maternal rage?

One wonders.

But through it all, Jeremy forgives his parents. He’s seen where not dealing with trauma and pain leads you: his own alcoholism, Dad’s deterioration, Eddie’s crippling loneliness. It has taken some time, but he can now see his parents as the flawed, traumatized people that they are, and he accepts them anyway.

A knock announces Casey’s arrival, and Eddie happily answers the door. Patches, curled up on a pet bed in the corner of the room, leaps to his feet and bounds after Eddie.

Casey greets them both with a wide smile. “Hey, kid. Jeremy’s got you answering the door now?”

“He’s your secretary,” Jeremy points out, like he’s offended Casey would even consider his arrangement with Eddie to be tantamount to servitude.

“That’s called a paid position.”

“I pay him.”

“Your dick is not an accepted form of currency,” says Casey.

Eddie blushes, slightly scandalized by the crass talk. Flustered, he lets Casey inside. Casey sheds his leather jacket on the coat rack, and Angelo follows behind him. Angelo Zuccarelli is a short Italian man who looks like he could have been a mafioso in The Godfather. His short dark hair is slicked back, his crisp grey suit impeccable. A man of few words, he gives Eddie a friendly nod as he passes by.

“If you’re gonna shit-talk, you don’t get to eat,” Jeremy tells Casey. “Angelo hasn’t said a word. He knows how to play the game.”

Angelo finally speaks: “Casey can’t help himself. He loves the sound of his own voice.”

“You say that like I’m meeting him for the first time.” Jeremy tosses Angelo a half-smile.

“Bitch all you want. Juries love me. I’m a barrel of laughs.” Casey opens the fridge and pulls out a can of Coke.

“More like a barrel of monkeys,” Angelo volleys back.

The four of them gather at the table for dinner: buttermilk fried chicken, biscuits, and macaroni and cheese. The cake is almost too much to eat at the tail end of all that deliciousness, but they make a valiant effort. There is no alcohol served with dinner. Jeremy is three months sober, a fact which Eddie points out with pride at almost every opportunity, embarrassing the hell out of Jeremy. But if he’s honest, he’s endlessly amazed by how much faith Eddie has in him.

After dinner, Eddie and Angelo linger at the table, trading farm stories. Turns out Angelo grew up in rural Indiana, so he shares a common background with Eddie. Patches lies on the couch and listens to them talk. Casey and Jeremy stand outside on the balcony, looking out at the busy nightlife.

“You brought me out here for a reason?” Casey asks.

“Maybe I just wanted to look at the stars with you.” Jeremy bats his eyelashes. Casey just smirks. Solemn now, Jeremy says, “I’ve been thinking a lot about my mom.”

Casey is the only one who knows the truth about Mom’s role in Isaac’s murder. Jeremy needed to talk about it with someone, and Casey was the only person he could trust with such sensitive information.

“She had no remorse when she confessed,” says Jeremy. “There were tears, but I don’t think they were for Isaac.”

“You think she was faking it?”

“No, they seemed genuine. I think she was crying because I knew the truth. Not because she killed someone.” Jeremy lets out a breath. “How do you do that? How do you kill someone and not have it affect you?”

Casey shrugs, leaning forward on the balcony rails. Jeremy briefly worries the rail will break and he’ll fall to his death.

“I mean, my dad just covered up the murder, and look how he turned out. It broke him. But my mom… it’s like it didn’t bother her at all.”

“Something about a mother protecting her child?” Casey offers half-heartedly.

“She told Mary what happened. Just went over there and rubbed salt in the wound.”

“Maybe your mom’s a bit of a psycho.”

Jeremy winces internally. “So what if the apple plopped straight down? Could I end up being like her?”

“Ah, the old nature versus nurture debate. Well, look at me. My dad was an abusive shitbag, and I turned out fine.”

“You eat your feelings and moonlight as an Elvis impersonator. I don’t think you turned out fine.”

Casey spreads his hands. “I’m not murdering anybody. I’d say I’m doing okay.”

“A pretty low bar.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. Under the right circumstances, maybe all of us are capable of something like that.”

Jeremy looks through the glass at Eddie, who’s laughing at something Angelo’s saying.

As though reading Jeremy’s mind, Casey says, “I wouldn’t worry about him. He’s a bit of a wackadoodle, but I don’t think he’d hurt anybody. Shit, he was nearly catatonic after witnessing what happened to Pamela.”

Does that mean anything? Jeremy doesn’t think being repulsed by blood negates the desire to kill, but perhaps it says something. Maybe he should broach the topic of therapy or counseling with Eddie, just to be safe.

The glass door separating the balcony and the apartment slides open, and Eddie joins them in the cold. “Hey, fellas. Room for one more?”

“Three’s a crowd,” Casey says. “I’ll head back inside.” He gives Jeremy a look that seems like it’s supposed to communicate something, but Jeremy’s at a loss for what that message might be. Perhaps Casey’s being gracious and giving them some alone time.

When it’s just Jeremy and Eddie standing outside, Jeremy asks him, “So, do you like it here? I mean, really.”

“It sure is different. But I’ll get used to it.”

“Bet you never thought you’d be a city boy.”

“I thought about it,” Eddie says. He moves closer, takes Jeremy’s chilled hands in his own warm ones. Their arms hang at their sides, fingers interlocking. “Wondered what it’d be like. Actually, a couple years after you left, I went to sign up for the army, but they wouldn’t take me on account of my eye.”

“You never told me that.”

Eddie shrugs his shoulders.

“What made you try to enlist?”

“I wanted to leave. But I was kind of glad they turned me away. I still felt like I had to be there for Ma. Then when I got around to tellin’ her about it, she got real mad. Like I betrayed her by wantin’ to go out on my own.” Eddie squeezes Jeremy’s hands, his face suddenly serious. “I don’t ever want you to feel trapped like that.”

Jeremy doesn’t tell Eddie that he did feel trapped, so much so that it influenced his decision to leave Harvest all those years ago. But maybe Eddie already knows.

“I guess I seem like a real sad sack, like I couldn’t make it on my own. And back when we were kids, I let you believe that, ‘cause I didn’t want you to leave. But if you’re ever not happy with me, it’s okay. I’ll be okay. I promise.”

Eddie’s always been the most unselfish person Jeremy’s ever known. He sacrificed his own happiness for Mary’s sake. It’s about time Eddie gets something for himself.

“Well, you don’t need to worry about that. I’m plenty happy.” Jeremy steals a kiss before Eddie can answer.

Eddie’s mouth is soft and sweet, still gentle even though he knows Jeremy’s not fragile. Jeremy nips at Eddie’s bottom lip, then they break away.

A knock sounds on the glass, and Casey’s feigning disgust on the other side. “Get a room,” Casey grouses, and Jeremy flips him off. Eddie just laughs, because here they are, two lonely broken people finding solace in each other. And maybe there’s a little bit of irony in where they began and where they ended up: stealing secret kisses in the woods at night in Jeremy’s car, to standing on the balcony of a high-rise apartment, sharing kisses while the world passes by beneath them.

As Jeremy holds Eddie close and listens to the white noise of the city, he knows he is as happy as he’s ever been.

 

* * *

  
 _"They fuck you up, your Mom and Dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had. And add some extra, just for you."_ ~ Philip Larkin


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